To The King!
by Ithil-valon
Summary: As Eomer takes on the mantle of leadership in Rohan, the new king faces a coming winter with possible food shortages for his people, and a new threat looms, which challenges the new king and threatens to tear Rohan apart.
1. Default Chapter

**To The King!**

**Chapter One**

**How Did It Come to This?**

This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based on the characters of J.R.R. Tolkien. This fiction is AU.

The warrior paused, resting his forehead against the massive oak doors leading into the imposing domed chamber, repository for remains of the Kings and the Stewards of Gondor. The predawn air was still cold enough to transform each exhalation into misty shadows before his face. His heart beat fiercely in his chest, not from fear, but from emotion, and his calloused hands gripped the door handles tightly. Steeling himself, he thrust open the doors and strode purposefully into the darkened room.

No breath of air stirred inside the darkened hall made even mustier by the lingering odor of the recently burned pyre. Denethor II, 26th Steward of Gondor, rendered insane by the overuse of the Palantír, had committed suicide and attempted the murder of his wounded younger son, Faramir. Only the heroic actions of the wizard Gandalf and Pippin, Hobbit of the Shire and Guard of the Citadel, had saved Faramir's life. Though already gravely wounded in the suicidal charge to retake Osgiliath and burned by the fire, the young man had recovered, clutched from death by the healing hands of the king. He now served Gondor as its 27th Steward. More importantly, from the warrior's point of view, he was presently courting the Lady Éowyn, Shield Maiden of Rohan, whom he met in the house of healing while they both healed from their ring war injuries.

Booted footfalls echoed hollowly as he made his way down the rows of carved marble. The coldness in his chest had little to do with the chill of the air and much to do with the numbing knot of grief that even now threatened to overwhelm him. The only illumination came from the faint moonlight cascading peacefully through the open doors in sharp relief to the macabre shadows thrown onto the walls by the flickering torches. He looked neither left nor right, for it was not the marbled tombs of these esteemed men that he sought, but one lone wooden box covered with the green and white banner of Rohan. Inside the box, placed here with great reverence by the warrior himself, lay the remains of Théoden, seventeenth King of Rohan.

Éomer, son of Éomund, knelt beside the box, easily running his hand along the richly colored material. Scorch marks and fire damage still affected parts of the hall, but that did not concern him. His complete attention was on the box in front of him. He had come here, long before the King's Honor Guard would arrive, to spend some time alone with his king for the last time. "I have come to take you home, uncle, to rest with Théodred and our forefathers."

In recognition of Rohan's aid and sacrifices, King Elessar had graciously offered to entomb King Théoden here in all the splendor of these halls, but Éomer knew that his uncle would never rest well here. No, cold marble tombs were not for the men of Rohan, but the soft rolling mounds in view of Edoras, where the scent of Simbelmynë always lingered and the shadow of the mountains fell, was where their spirits longed to rest.

For several months now, the body of Théoden, King of Rohan had reposed here while his successor led the Rohirrim in support of Aragorn, Heir of Isildur. Mordor had been defeated and Aragorn crowned King Elessar in the time that had passed. For these months, Éomer had remained with his men, guarding the city and helping to seek out and destroy the roving bands of Orcs that still plagued parts of the kingdom. Having paid such a dear price in riding to Gondor's aid, Éomer would not see the job undone by any remaining Orcs, Corsairs, Haradrim, or Dunlendings. Gondor and Rohan both would require years to fully rebuild and re-man their armies, but rebuild they would, for Middle Earth still housed enemies, and these enemies would once again grow bold.

Éomer placed his cheek against the soft material of the banner as tears began to fall onto the richly colored cloth. Embarrassed and surprised, Éomer jerked his head up and quickly stanched them. He had vowed long ago never to allow tears to fall from his eyes again…never to show what he felt was a weakness in himself. The last time he had allowed tears to fall was on the day he saw what the Orcs had done to his father.

_He wasn't supposed to be in here, but Éomer was a very determined little boy. He would spend a few private moments with his father's body, as befitted a son. When his mother left the room to care for Éowyn, he entered. Squaring his shoulders in an unconscious imitation of Éomund, Éomer gently pulled the blanket from his father's face and upper chest. What he found shocked him to his very core. He staggered back and sank to his knees, fighting back the bile rising to burn his throat. He choked off the scream threatening to tear from his body by biting hard on his hand until the blood flowed down his arm. After a few minutes, he was able to come once again to his feet. Swallowing hard, he managed to pull the blanket once again to cover his father's face, hiding the horror. Shaking, he laid his head on his father's chest and for a moment could pretend that, the truth was not the truth…that his father was only sleeping. But like the restless sea, the truth can not be held back. Doubt such as he had never known in his brief life assailed Éomer. How could his strong father, who always protected him, who was so powerful and brave, and who's booming laugh filled the entire house, be encased in this same cold and torn body? He believed his father to be invincible; he was the Chief Marshal of the entire Riddermark! Tears of fear, grief, and confusion poured from his very soul as he clung_ _to the shell that had filled his life with love and security. He cried until there were no tears left and even then the small body shook with silent sobs. "I will find them, father," the boy promised. "I'll hunt down and kill every orc there is." _

_Some time later well-meaning adults found him there and ushered back to his bedroom with the admonition that he must not cry…that he must be brave. He lay for a long time in the darkness thinking about his father and the lessons Éomund had always taught him. Next door he could hear the wails of his little sister, Éowyn, who had finally been told of her father's death. Sliding off the bed, Éomer quietly went to his sister's room. Sitting on the bed beside her, he allowed the little one to sit up into his arms and cry on his shoulder. He almost smiled to think of it, for more often than not, they were playfully tormenting each other with him acting extremely irritated that so small a child would want to tag along in his shadow. Wrapping his arms around her he said the only thing he could think of. "Do not cry, Éowyn, I will take care of you." _

And to this vow of his heart he remained true. From that day forward, and especially after the quick death of their mother, Éomer took on the protector role for his sister, even going so far as to teach her riding and sword play for protection. He vowed that she would be able to defend herself should anything ever happen to him like it had his father. He never forgot the promise he made to his father either. He'd spent his entire adult life hunting down Orcs and any enemy of his beloved Mark. Éomer shook his head, bringing himself back to the present; to this place he had hoped not to be for many long years. For these few moments, before the honor guard arrived, he could just be Éomer saying goodbye to his uncle, the man who had raised him and Éowyn after the deaths of their parents…the man who had taught him what it was to be a warrior. He wanted to say something…to thank him for all he had done and been, but words failed him. Éomer was a man of actions, not words.

When he walked out of this room he would have to be Éomer King and once again the strong presence his people expected. But the truth was, he did not feel like a king…did not want to be king. It was his cousin Théodred that should be here, Théodred that was schooled and tempered to inherit the throne, before he had been fatally wounded at the Fords of Isen. Éomer was comfortable in his role as Third Marshal of the Mark. He was a good warrior, a man brave and honorable. What did he know of politics, of crop yields, or of settling disputes? "How did it come to this, uncle?" The words sounded as hollow coming from his throat as they did in the echo of the empty hall. The fatigue of his body, soul, and spirit, drew him once again to the past as the words brought a brief smile to his face. He recalled so often hearing those words from his uncle's lips, usually in connection to Éomer being brought before him for discipline. He allowed his mind to drift backwards again…to happier days long before the horror of the Pelennor Fields.

_The doors to the Golden Hall of the Meduseld crashed open with a vengeance causing Théoden to glance up in irritation from the map table where he had been working. All activity in the great hall ceased and voices fell silent as all eyes turned as one to the entrance. What the King saw as the disturbance caused him to frown even deeper. Erkenbrand, Marshal of the Westfold, marched down the center of the hall in a near rage. Large and imposing even when in good temper, the Marshal seemed to have grown even stronger in his anger. Erkenbrand's arms were the thickness of tree limbs, and dangling from one hand, his feet barely scraping the floor, was Éomer. Théoden straightened from the table and turned to face the pair as Erkenbrand stormed down the central walkway, skirting the fire pit in the center to halt before his sovereign._

"_My King, it has happened again," boomed the irate Marshal. "You know that I love the boy, but he is not proven; he is too young to ride with my éored." With that Erkenbrand dropped Éomer who quickly made his feet and stood resolutely before his king. He schooled his young face into a look a determination, but not before Théoden had seen the nervousness he masked. _

_Théoden sighed and brought his eyes back to the Marshal. "How far did you make it this time, old friend?" He bit the inside of his lip to keep back the smile that threatened to show. He could not, however, keep the twinkle from his eyes. Thankfully, he realized, Éomer was too young to notice the nuances of his uncle's face like his long time Marshal did, and in that moment all the ire left Erkenbrand._

"_Many leagues, my lord," he sighed. "The rascal managed to wheedle two of my men into allowing him to join at the back of the éored, where I would not be likely to notice him. They even lent him a cloak to wear!"_

_Erkenbrand's face colored when the King raised an eyebrow in response. "They are young themselves, my lord, and were swayed by his enthusiasm," he added quickly before clearing his throat gruffly. "Rest assured that I shall give them the proper motivation so that they will not be taken in again."_

"_Éomer, apologize to Marshal Erkenbrand."_

"_But uncle..."_

"_Apologize!"_

_Éomer started at the tone of his uncle's voice. If anything he stood even straighter to face Marshal Erkenbrand. "I apologize, Marshal, for the delay I have caused you." He clamped his teeth together to keep from having to say anymore._

"_And," prompted Théoden when he saw the muscle working in the Éomer's jaw._

_Éomer swallowed hard and expelled his breath in defeat. "And it will not happen again." Glancing at his uncle, he added softly, "You have my word on it."_

"_And mine as well," confirmed the king. _

_Erkenbrand signaled his acceptance of the apology with a nod of his head to Éomer and a slight bow to Théoden. Turning back to Éomer, he placed his hand on the boy's shoulder and met his eyes. "Éomer, son of Éomund, one day we will ride together as brothers and I will be proud to have you by my side."_

_The beam that lit Éomer's face lightened the mood considerably._

"_But," the Marshal continued quickly, "it is not yet that day."_

"_Marshal, you and your men are welcome to the hospitality of the Meduseld tonight if you wish to leave tomorrow."_

"_Thank you, my king, but no." With a slight frown and a glance at Éomer, he continued, "We have lost too much time as it is. The Westfold needs us. We will continue our journey immediately, by your leave."_

"_Of course, Marshal. Safe journey."_

_Théoden and a suddenly very unsure Éomer watched the man take his leave. Neither spoke for many long moments after the great doors had closed. Glancing around the hall, Théoden's attention prodded the curious to return to their duties after the brief interruption. No doubt they had all been privy to the scene, for the Marshal had fairly bellowed his initial outrage. Sighing again, the king looked at his nephew. 'Walk with me Éomer."_

_Neither spoke as they left through a side entryway of the golden hall and made their way along the dark passages. The pair passed the buttery and exited through the armory before walking around the building to the very back of the Meduseld. Théoden knew that, outside of the magnificent stables, this was Éomer's favorite place to be, where the view of the White Mountains spoke of timeless serenity while the inevitable winds pummeled the body with the taunt of violence and the reminder of the frailty of life. Éomer loved the place with all his heart for the vista mirrored his own his own soul's serenity and torment._

_Théoden stopped slightly ahead of Éomer and stood silent for some moments before turning back to face the lad. "How did it come to this, Éomer?"_

_Instead of the anger that Éomer expected, it was sadness that he heard in his uncle's voice, and it confused him._

"_Éomer, what great value does the Westfold hold to the Mark?"_

_Éomer mulled over the question. "Since the rising threat from the east," he began thoughtfully, "our Mearas herds are raised and protected there, my lord." _

_Théoden nodded. "And why are they valuable to us."_

"_Our horses are the finest in the world," Éomer answered with pride. "They provide swift vengeance to our foes, steadfast loyalty to our éoreds, and a means by which we trade for the goods that we must have to provide for our people."_

"_That they do," agreed Théoden. "And are there enemies near the Westfold that would harm our horses?"_

"_Yes, my lord. The Dunlendings are ever jealous, seeking to destroy the grazing lands and burn the villages while Orcs wish to steal our horses," Éomer spat with all the righteous indignation that he could muster. In a land that revered horses, no one loved them more than Éomer, and the thought that even one could purposefully be harmed or stolen for dark purposes only the Orcs knew was almost more than he could stand._

"_You speak well, Éomer," the King continued calmly, "now just one last question."_

_Éomer nodded solemnly, curious as to what his uncle was trying to tell him._

"_Who's responsibility is it to protect the Westfold?"_

"_Marshal Erkenbrand," Éomer immediately answered, his eyes widening as realization began to slowly dawn. "And while I delayed him…." The boy could not finish the sentence. Éomer bowed his head, deeply ashamed of his actions. "Forgive, my lord," he began, his voice thick with emotion, "I did not think… I only wanted to hunt Orcs."_

_Éomer did not see the small smile that graced Théoden's lips. "Look at me, Éomer," he said fondly. Placing his hands on his nephew's shoulders and gripping them gently, Théoden leaned down to the boy's eye level. "We learn by the mistakes we make, and if Bema smiles on us, no one else suffers from that learning but us. The day will come soon enough when you will hunt Orcs, but as the Marshal said, 'today is not that day'."_

_Théoden pulled the boy into a bear hug and chuckled to himself as he placed a kiss on the blonde head. "You remind me so much of your father. Come; let us speak no more of this. Our word has been given."_

_----------------_

A softly cleared throat interrupted Éomer's thoughts. Standing up, he gave a bow to the box before turning to meet the newcomer. His lieutenant stood discreetly waiting a few steps away. "The Royal Guard has arrived, my lord."

Éomer was surprised to see the sunshine streaming through the open doors, bringing its welcome warming to the chilled air. He nodded. "Has all been prepared as I asked, Gamling?"

"Yes, my lord, all is ready."

"Then let us be done with this wretched place."

TBC


	2. To The King, Chapter Two

**To the King**

**Chapter Two**

The Price of Victory

_My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story._

Éomer squinted against the morning brightness as he emerged from the darkened building. Every direction he turned, the light reflected off of the white stone with a glare that he found blinding. He turned to look at the wiry man by his side, a man he had known most all of his life. Gamling had been a young lieutenant in Marshal Erkenbrand's éored on the day that Éomer had last "stowed away" with the Rohirrim. After several years of faithful service in the Westfold he had been chosen to move to Edoras and entered the Royal Guard, personal éored of the king. Now he served Éomer. More careworn now, Gamling was everything his King could want as an ally, an advisor, and as a friend. It was Gamling that Éomer had sent back to Rohan with most of the surviving riders, and it was Gamling to whom Éomer had entrusted the preparations for King Théoden's final journey.

Éomer had longed to oversee the preparations himself, but besides the sorties he and his personal éored had been doing over the last few months, Éomer simply would not leave Éowyn until she was completely healed and could accompany them home. It would be many long years before he would completely free himself of the shock he had experienced when he found her on the battlefield, seemingly dead. Finding Théoden dead had been a blow, but an honorable death in battle was something that every Horse-lord accepted and embraced. It was not something that he would ever accept for his sister however, no matter how adept she was with a sword. Bema's blood, his heart nearly stopped whenever he even thought of it!

Walking over to retrieve his mount, Éomer took in the sights and sounds of the awakening city. Minas Tirith, the crown jewel of Gondor, the city of Kings. Seemingly hewed from the very rock of the mountains, her white battlements rose seven levels from the ground. Each circular level was ringed by a wall and built in such a way that the gate of each faced a different direction from the one beneath it. At the upper most level, facing the East stood the Great Gate. Behind that towered a seven hundred foot cliff upon which sat the Citadel and the White Tower of Ecthelion with its banner fluttering a thousand feet above the plain. The most outstanding feature to the warrior was the precipice of the cliff jutting outward like the keel of a giant ship. Taking it all in, Éomer felt as though he'd been buried in stone.

Minas Tirith was considered the most cosmopolitan city in all middle earth, and Éomer had hated every moment spent here. Even though hosted as graciously and luxuriously as possible by his friend, King Elessar, Éomer detested the noises, the stench, and the crowds, concluding that most of the formal events he'd attended were little more than a cacophony of confusion. Many of the upper crust of Gondor looked at him and his men as though they were something to be scraped off the bottom of their shoes, little better than oafs incapable of conversing about anything other than horses. He took great pleasure in the way the people of Gondor steered clear of his éored. Maidens had been known to scream in terror and seek out their fathers when the Rohirrim scowled at them, a fact that the men recounted gleefully over campfires in the evening. In truth, they were proud of their fierce reputation among the good people of Gondor. If the people of Gondor didn't want the Rohirrim in their city, the sentiment was certainly shared by the Horse-lords. To a man, they were ready to return home to Rohan and leave the confining city behind. A beautiful sight to most people of Middle Earth, she was no jewel to the Rohirrim. The rolling grasslands of the Riddermark, which stretched like a great green sea, were where they found their beauty and their peace. Éomer reveled in the open sky with the sun and wind on his face. He felt stifled in this city of stone.

Nodding to Gamling, Éomer mounted his gray dappled steed and the two men made their way to the first level, where King Elessar and the official city delegation were awaiting them by the rebuilt great gates. It was here that they would meet the Royal Guard and the caisson that had been specially made for this journey by the loving hands of the finest craftsmen in Rohan. The two Kings would lead the procession to the upper level where Théoden's body would be secured to the caisson for the journey home.

Wearing the black and silver colors of Gondor, the White Tree emblazoned on his chest, Aragorn, now King Elessar waited patiently for Éomer to join him on the first level. The winged crown graced his head, and Andúril hung by his side. Most dear to him though were Boromir's vambraces, which he still wore to honor the pledge made to his fallen comrade in arms. A fine black cloak hung on Aragorn's back and even down the back of Brego, the king's mount, a Rohirric steed that had once belonged to Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark and son of Théoden. That both had now been lost to the long struggle with Mordor saddened the King greatly.

Aragorn, along with Legolas, Gandalf, Gimli, Pippin, and Merry, had been present at the burial of Théodred on that windy day shortly before the battle of Helm's Deep. The King of Rohan had only just been freed from Saruman's evil spell by Gandalf and had had Grima Wormtongue literally thrown from the Golden Hall. Aragorn could still remember the puzzled look on Théoden's face when he had looked around and questioned, "Where is Théodred? Where is my son?" The utter sadness and grief that had gripped the king and the people of Edoras had been palpable. While Théoden had been under the spell of Saruman, Grima had taken over much of the running of Rohan, if you could call it that. What he had done was to exile as many of the warriors of the Mark as he could, including Éomer, Third Marshal. His intent was to so weaken Rohan that Saruman would be able to easily take it over and aid Sauron in the destruction of Gondor. During these dark days the people had obviously turned their hopes more and more to Théodred, and his death had been a great blow to them. Even with Théoden seemingly himself again, it would take some time to restore hope to this beleaguered people whom had lost so much. It was only after the victory at Helms Deep that the people of Rohan had truly begun to hope again.

King Elessar turned to look at Queen Arwen, mounted by his side. Called the Evenstar of her people, she was considered the most beautiful of all the elves. This day she wore a sapphire blue gown, which was edged with silver, and the vision she made was still enough to steal the King's breath. Slightly behind the King and Queen, also mounted, were Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, and Lady Éowyn. Lord Faramir was now betrothed to the lady and would accompany the procession home as the official representative of Gondor. It was not prudent for both the King and the Steward to be absent from Gondor for the amount of time it would take to reach Rohan and journey back, so Aragorn had decided to send a contingent of Gondor's finest guardsmen as an honor guard for Théoden and as an added protection for the Steward on his return journey. Standing behind the king and his party stood the council members and the representatives of the most prominent houses of Gondor. While they cared not to socialize with the rough Rohirrim, most acknowledged, albeit grudgingly, the great sacrifices Rohan had made in riding to their aid and whether they wished to be here or not, King Elessar had insisted on their appearance.

"Open the gates," called the sentry from above, causing a murmuring to be heard among the gathered people. The assembled throng watched in anticipation as the giant gates swung inward to reveal the first view of the Royal Guard. The regular people of Gondor found the Rohirrim to be fascinating and larger than life, if somewhat intimidating. No one who had witnessed their heroic charge into the hordes from Mordor on the Pelennor Fields would ever forget the sight, and they sincerely wished to show their gratitude to the King of the Riddermark. A gasp went up from the crowd as the Royal Guard entered the city pulling a golden caisson whose splendor would rival anything Gondor could produce.

The wooden cart had been intricately carved and exquisitely fitted with bronze horse symbols by Bergfinn, the best blacksmith in all of the Mark. Aging and near the time when he would pass on his trade to his son, Féalgar, he considered this his greatest privilege and had outdone himself in the design and outfitting. Even the wheels were fitted with bronze and designed to resemble sunbursts. Adorning the sides, matching the cloaks worn by the King's Éored, was red and gold edged dark green material. Six great white stallions pulled the cart, with members of the Royal Guard riding the three horses on the right side. Behind, riding in pairs, were fifty Royal Guardsmen, all seemingly over six feet tall and resplendent in full golden armor, their spears held on top of their booted right feet. On each spear fluttered the green and gold banner of Eorl. Backs ramrod straight, they looked neither left nor right.

The procession halted only long enough for the two kings to take the lead, followed by Arwen, Faramir and Éowyn. The other dignitaries would wait here. Slowly the group made their way up through the circles of the city to the upper level. A squadron of Citadel Guards stood at attention on either side of the gates to the Hallows. Their mithril helmets were dazzling in the morning light. At the approach of the two kings, they drew their swords as one and placed the pommels across their breastbones in salute. The great white gull feather adornments looked rather ridiculous to the Rohirrim, but they appreciated the pageantry and the salute as fitting tribute to Théoden-King. Six of the Rohirric Royal Guard disappeared inside the Hallows.

Éomer kept his eyes glued to the doorway through which the guard had entered. A dull headache throbbed behind his eyes and his neck was stiff from the long night's vigil. He refused the urge to rub it and maintained his bearing, remaining at attention. Firefoot danced in agitation, as ready as his master to be back on the open plains, but Éomer automatically brought the feisty horse under control and let his mind wander. During the solitary night a door had been opened to his past and he found himself once again reliving a moment that he'd long forgotten.

O-o-O-o-O

_The family was celebrating the honor day of Éowyn's birth. The eight year old was positively quivering with excitement over the family attention. Her smile brought warmth to Éomer's heart, for he did not see his little sister smile often enough. Too much joy had been robbed from her too short life. _

_To honor the occasion even more, Théoden had arranged for an intimate family meal to be served in the anteroom off of his own bedchamber. It was seldom that there was not some official meeting or meal that required the use of the great hall or one of the slightly less grand meeting rooms. There was very little privacy at the Meduseld, though the family was used to it and understood well the obligations that required so much of Théoden's time. Éomer and Éowyn cherished the rare occasions when it could be just the four of them for the evening respite, reminding them of the quiet meals shared at home with their parents. _

_Candlelight gave a soft glow to the table spread with venison, freshly baked bread, cheese, mushrooms, grapes, and Éowyn's favorite honey cakes. Her blonde hair had been brushed until it shined, using the tortoise shell brush gifted to her by her uncle Théoden, and then plaited into two long braids. Each braid was now adorned with a beautiful green velvet ribbon edged in gold, a gift from Théodred. Éomer's gift had been the most wonderful of all to the little girl, though she had tried hard not to show it, a small sword scaled especially for her size. _

_Éowyn knew that her brother had made the sword himself, working long hours beside Bergfinn, the smithy, who loved having the boy's companionship. Éowyn too reveled in following Éomer to Bergfinn's huge barn where all types of fascinating work took place, from the forging of the magnificent Rohirric swords to shoeing of plow horses. Bergfinn, like most everyone else in Edoras, had taken to the two newest additions to Edoras. Éomer, usually shadowed by Éowyn, was curious about everything and everyone in the city. He had a love for horses and begged Bergfinn to teach him the skills needed to forge the shoes and actually shoe the steeds. Théoden had quietly questioned Bergfinn as to whether or not the two were a bother, but Bergfinn had assured his king that the pair were no trouble. On the contrary, he had added, Éomer, were he not a member of the Royal family, had the makings of a fine blacksmith of his own. What was most astounding to the blacksmith was the empathy the boy seemed to share with all horses. He'd seen him calm the most agitated mount. _

_Throughout the meal Théodred had been assailing the family with humorous stories. Each story featured a different family member as its victim, as Théo took great pleasure in relating numerous embarrassing moments for each of them, much to the delight of the others. Taking a deep breath and pausing after yet another round of laughter, Théodred launched into yet another tale. "Father, do you remember Battleaxe?"_

_Éomer perked up at the name. Éowyn had no memory of Battleaxe, but knew that had been the name of her father's legendary stallion._

"_Remember him," Théoden snorted, "I still bear scars from him!"_

_Éowyn giggled at her uncle's pained expression and slapped her hand over her mouth to keep the milk from squirting out. "Tell me more, Uncle," she begged after swallowing the mouthful of milk she'd successfully held in._

_Théoden smiled tenderly at his niece. After all, who could resist that angelic face? "All right, it is your day, so I will tell you a story of the biggest, meanest, most contrary horse that ever roamed the Mark." Pouring himself a mug of ale, he began to relate his favorite Battleaxe tale. "He was also the most beautiful thing I've even seen, a magnificent black, but he absolutely did not know his place and would attempt to bite me whenever I got near."_

_Théodred sniggered, "It wasn't just you, Father. As I remember it, he would bite anyone that wasn't Éomund."_

_Éomer propped his elbows on the table and settled his chin on the clasped hands, his face a picture of contentment. He could never hear enough stories of his father, and his memories of Battleaxe were vivid. "Someday I'll have a horse just like Battleaxe," he sighed, "and he'll be the greatest horse ever."_

"_Tell me the story," Éowyn insisted._

"_Very well," nodded Théoden, settling back and continuing. "The queen and I had taken Théodred to visit your home. Éomer was about two and a half, I should think, and your father decided it was time for the honor of his horse seating." Théoden smiled at the fond remembrance and noticed three pairs of eyes intently watching him. It fascinated him to behold a different emotion on each face. Théodred's eyes contained mirth, for he had heard the story before. Éowyn's look was one of happy anticipation mixed with the sleepiness that marked the late hour. Éomer…Éomer's eyes gave him pause, for in his visage Théoden could see all the pride and longing that came into his countenance whenever his father's name was mentioned._

"_Uncle!"_

"_I'm sorry, Éowyn, now where was I? Oh yes, your father and I had taken Éomer outside and were preparing to put him on a horse alone for the first time. As you know, little one, it is a great honor the first time one of the Eorlingas is placed on horseback. An honor passed down from father to son. Your father had a brand new saddle made just for the occasion too. Knowing Battleaxe, I stood well back. I'd already received one nip from him that day. I have to admit that I was rather apprehensive to see Battleaxe lower his head to look at your father. He was skittish and not a bit happy to see Éomer in your father's arms."_

"_Did he bite Éomer?" Éowyn asked in awe._

"_Good gracious, no," Théoden was quick to answer. "In fact, he settled right down, almost as though he understood the gravity of the occasion. Well, Éomund had just placed Éomer upon the horse's back when Théodwyn walked out the front door of the house. It gave her such a fright to see her babe on the back of that black monster, as she called him, that she went to wailing in fright. Her wails so upset Éomer that he went to wailing himself and proceeded to wet himself and Battleaxe."_

_Théodred was holding his sides he was laughing so much, and Éowyn shrieked with delight. Éomer turned scarlet with mortification, his eyes wide in horror._

_Théoden took pity on the boy and cuffed him good-naturedly. "Don't fret, Éomer, you're not the first lad to so anoint a horse on his first sitting, nor will you be the last. At least you didn't soil poor Battleaxe as Théo did his first mount!"_

"_Father," Théodred cried out in mock dismay, "you wound me."_

"_Ah," laughed Théoden, "but not nearly so much as you wounded Archer! The horse was leery of you ever after." _

_By now they were all laughing. Éomer was over his earlier embarrassment and Éowyn had to fight to stifle a yawn. She wasn't fast enough, however, and the king called an end to the evening. _

_Éowyn face clouded over at the prospect of the end of this most wonderful of nights. "I'm not sleepy, Uncle, I promise."_

_Théodred chortled and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Then why are your eyes red, little one? Come, climb on my back and I shall give you a pony ride to bed. That is if you're not too old now to play with your cousin!"_

"_Oh Theo, I'll never be too old to play with you," Éowyn promised as she hiked up her skirt and climbed onto his back. "Giddy up," she squealed as he dashed from the room with the bouncing girl on his back._

"_She was very pleased with your gift, Éomer," Théoden said when the two were alone._

"_Do you actually mean to teach her swordplay?"_

"_I already have, Uncle," Éomer replied. "We have been practicing with wooden swords that I've made to fit her. She shows promise," he added proudly._

"_I see," Théoden mused. "And who has been teaching you?" Théoden's preferred method of instruction with all three of the young ones was to ask a variety of questions on the subject at hand, allowing them to work their way through whatever lesson he was trying to impart. Besides increasing their self-confidence, it demonstrated to them the consequences of actions and forced them to look at problems from many different angles._

"_Well," Éomer began a bit unsurely, "Théodred usually, but really any of the guards that I can talk into it." Too late he realized where his uncle might be going with the questions._

"_I don't bother them, Uncle, truly. I watch the guards practice with each other and when there is an odd number they have allowed me to join in."_

"_Very well, Éomer," Théoden replied. "I am just surprised that you do not spend more time with the boys your age."_

_Now it was Éomer's face that clouded._

"_Tell me," the King urged. "What is it that bothers you? Have they been unkind?"_

"_No, they are just not serious. I… I don't want to play games, Uncle. I want to learn to fight, to defend the Mark, and to kill Orcs. And I will someday; I'll kill every Orc I can find."_

"_I see," the King replied after a long pause, "then perhaps it is time I take a more active role in your training."_

"_Truly?" Éomer breathed, hardly daring to believe it was possible._

_Théoden nodded, "Truly. We shall begin tomorrow."_

A shadowy movement in doorway alerted Éomer to the returning Royal Guard. The men bore the banner-draped box containing their fallen king shoulder high. As it was being secured to the caisson, King Elessar placed his right hand over his heart and lowered his head. Éomer's eyes never left the caisson.


	3. To The King, Chapter Three

**To the King!**

**Chapter Three**

**Ever Shall I Stand Between You and Your Enemies**

_This is a not for profit work of fan fiction based on the characters of J.R.R. Tolkien. This fiction is AU._

_This work could never have been posted without the encouragement and beta reading of DJSparkles. Thank you, my friend, for giving me the courage I need to allow others to see my work._

_Many thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Battleaxe and Bergfinn, which will be mentioned throughout the story._

Once all the preparations were complete, the procession began its sorrowful journey. As the body of Théoden King wound its way down through the city levels, led once again by the two Kings, the people of Gondor who had turned out as a show of respect threw flowers onto the path in front of the assembly. The silence was broken only by the sound of the horses hooves echoing on the stone path.

Éowyn had to choke back tears as this heartfelt display, but beside her, Faramir was having quite a different reaction. Feeling the tension emanating from Faramir, she turned to glace at him questioningly and was alarmed by the paleness of his face. A fine sheen of sweat shone on his forehead and the knuckles of his hands were white from the hold he had on the pommel of his saddle. But more than that, he bore such a look of pain that it nearly took away her breath. She immediately reached over and grasped his hand with her own.

"Are you well, love?" she inquired. The look that he turned to her was so haunted that it startled her in its intensity, and she only then realized that he must be reliving the horrific suicide charge ordered by his father.

With supreme effort he forced himself to will down the bile threatening to claw its way into this throat. Shaking the memory away before it could engulf him any further, Faramir smiled faintly at his lady love and took in a ragged breath. "I am well, Éowyn, do not fear."

Éowyn doubted very much that he was in any way well, but for his sake she managed to stifle a snort and instead nodded acceptance of his statement. She knew in her heart that it would be a long time before her betrothed was any place close to well and silently pledged to do all within her power to see the demons exorcised from his heart. Éowyn smiled at Faramir and squeezed his hand in support. "The bad days are behind us. Let us look only to the future."

King Elessar noticed the exchange between his Steward and Lady Éowyn, but Éomer did not. His eyes had never looked any place but straight ahead. Théoden had died a good death, a warrior's death, but Éomer could not shake the deep feeling of regret that clung to him now like the dampness of a fog clings to tree and grass covering all in a swirl of mist. Like a fog shrouded plain, Éomer's mind was veiled and darkened. He had vowed to stand between Théoden and his enemies and he had not.

Firefoot danced nervously as the crowds pressed in and children reached out to brush their hands against the gleaming coat. The great war horse was as anxious as his master to be out of the confines of the city. Éomer felt his steed's tension as his knees signaled direction to the stallion. He reached down to pat the shining grey neck and further reassure his mount that soon they would both be free from the confining rock. The great dappled grey raised his head and gave it a shake reminding Éomer of the first horse he'd ever owned.

"_Now, Éomer, now, let her go!" _

_Twelve-year-old Éomer stole a quick glance at the owner of the voice, his uncle Théoden. He was learning to ride like a warrior and it was at once exhilarating and terrifying. _

"_Give her full rein, Éomer, trust her!' urged Théoden, easily keeping pace with the boy and his mount. "She is a war horse of Rohan; she knows what to do!"_

_And give her full rein Éomer did. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and willed himself to relax upon the horse's back allowing her to gallop across the plain. As the powerful hooves thundered, Éomer felt a flush of pride in his beautiful mare, a birthday present from the King. Now he was learning to become one with her, to establish that trust and commitment so essential between Rohirrim and their horses. Relishing the cold bite of the wind whipping past his head, Éomer bellowed a war cry that elicited a laugh from the man galloping along beside him with such love and joy mirrored on his face._

"_That's it," urged Theoden. "Ride now; Ride for Rohan!" shouted the exuberant King. _

_For hours the two had ridden and practiced the art of cavalry warfare. Ever patient, Théoden taught his young nephew in the same long practiced ways of his fathers, and the ever-serious child had learned quickly. _

_That evening, as the two camped alone, Éomer watched his uncle from across the campfire. It had been a long hard day and both of them were now well content to watch the embers drifting into the quiet darkness. Théoden himself had prepared the rabbit stew which they had just finished eating, a fact which had amazed and amused Éomer to no end. _

"_Did you think I'd always sat in the Meduseld as King?" Théoden had asked with a chuckle as they cleaned and packed away their plates. "I'll have you know that I became quite adept at fending for myself when I rode the Westfold with my first éored. I was never happier than in those days of freedom when we rode the plains and the thunder of our hooves shook the ground." Théoden sighed contentedly and leaned forward to place another log on the crackling fire. With a stick he stirred the flames and watched as, caught in the heated draft, more embers danced upward like fireflies. Settling back against his saddle the King stretched out his legs and felt himself relax in the warmth of the fire. In truth he realized he had been too long away from the saddle and the day's workout was beginning to be felt in the muscles of his back and neck, but it was a good feeling all in all. _

_Looking up, Théoden enjoyed the vastness of space that was mirrored in the stars. The night was clear and cold and promised a frost before morning. He easily identified the constellations he'd learned from his father as a boy. For some time the pair sat in companionable silence. The fact that Éomer could sit for so long in silence was a trait that Théoden admired in the boy. Not all men, especially young men, were so comfortable with shared silence, but then Éomer had always had a tendency towards being a man of few words. No doubt his silence was as much a product of the wonderful exhaustion of a productive day as anything. Looking across the fire to see whether or not Éomer was still awake Théoden was surprised to see the expression on the child's face._

"_What is it, Éomer?"_

_Éomer rose, crossed the brief distance and knelt before Théoden. Surprised and a bit concerned, Théoden sat up. Thinking to feel the boy's head for fever he reached up, but his hand paused as he sensed the emotions in his nephew. He quickly lowered his arm and bade Éomer to speak, masking the confusion he felt with what he hoped was a calm voice. _

_With all of the passion he possessed, Éomer spoke solemnly. "Uncle, ever have you had my love," he began. "Today, this moment, I give you my life and my loyalty, my King. You are the Lord of the Mark, and you only do I serve. Ever shall I stand between you and your enemies."_

_His eyes never wavered from his uncle's, but now that he had given this spontaneous declaration he swallowed nervously…suddenly unsure. Had he displeased his uncle…spoken too rashly? Or worse, would his uncle laugh off his statement as that from a child?_

_Théoden stood and pulled the boy to his feet. Placing his hands on Éomer's shoulders, Théoden looked at him with what Éomer thought was a bit of sadness._

"_You do me a great honor, Éomer son of Éomund," Théoden declared. "Ever have I loved you as a son, and now I receive your fealty with the love of a King." With that, he pulled the lad into an embrace and kissed the fair hair, hiding the tears of pride that sprung to his eyes._

_Much later, as the boy fought to stay awake memorizing every detail of this most wonderful of days, Éomer thought that this must surely be the happiest day of his life. As sleep wrapped its soft cloak around him he smiled and knew that this day was one he would never forget._

The memory of that day still shone bright in Éomer's heart. It was a day that would always be dear to him. Turning back to glance at the banner draped coffin, Éomer sent a silent plea to Théoden.

"Forgive me, uncle, I failed you."


	4. To The King, Chapter Four

**To The King**

**Chapter Four**

**Courage is Found in Unlikely Places (Gildor Inglorion)**

_**Bravery is the capacity to perform properly even when scared half to death.--General Omar Bradley**_

The company halted just outside the tremendous gates that opened from the city on the first level. The original gates that had been ornately carved and centuries old had been battered down by Grond, the battering ram employed by the hordes of Mordor in the attack on Minas Tirith. These gates were strongly made, if not as beautiful as the originals, and would secure the city until such time as permanent ones could be made. For now the craftsmen of the city were feverishly working, with the aid of the dwarves, to rebuild the battered homes and businesses. The King rode to the head of the column and halted facing Éomer. Arwen, Faramir, and Éowyn stopped just outside the gates. Elessar saluted King Éomer with the traditional Elven salute of putting the right hand over the heart and lowering his head.

"Men of Rohan, as King of Gondor I pay tribute to Théoden King and to your fallen comrades, riders of the Mark, who answered our call for aid and helped to turn the tide against the evil forces which attacked us and threatened to cast all of Middle Earth into the darkness of evil. So long as there is a Gondor, the name Théoden shall be synonymous with courage and honor. Wherever men tell tales to their sons and mothers to daughters, this sacrifice shall be repeated and respected, bearing witness to your courage. I bid you, go, men of Rohan, take your King home to rest with his ancestors, but know that you go with the thanks and respect of all Gondor and of her King."

Aragorn nodded to Faramir who signaled the trumpeters on the top of the wall and a clear, ringing tribute rang forth across the plain followed by the clamor of many voices lifted in cheer. It began on the lowest level of the city and slowly spread upwards until the sound filled the air as a continuous roar. All who heard it felt a chill of awe touch their spines and would never forget this remarkable tribute.

"Henceforth," Elessar continued once the noise had died down, "the trumpets shall signal the arrival of the King of Rohan to the city of Minas Tirith. It shall ever be known as the Théoden call, and the people of the city shall, from this day forward, turn out to greet and honor the one who enters under this herald."

Éomer was deeply moved by this great honor bestowed upon him and therefore Rohan, and for the tribute to his uncle, for until this time the heralds had only been used for the ruling houses of Gondor. He nudged Firefoot and rode forward to grasp elbows with Elessar in the timeless tribute of one soldier to another.

Aragorn smiled at Éomer and squeezed his elbow. "I wish that I could accompany you home, my friend, but the need here is still too great."

"I would not take you from your city at such a time," responded Éomer, "for there is much yet to be done." Then he added ruefully, "for both of us".

"May your journey be safe and uneventful," Aragorn said in blessing to the group. To Éomer he quietly added with a smile, "and look after my Steward, for I have great need of him."

Éomer returned the smile and glanced sideways at his sister. "Indeed, and I would be most at risk from Éowyn should I not take watch over him."

Aragorn chuckled and started to turn Brego to the side, but Éomer's tightened grip on his elbow halted him. He turned back to his friend and was surprised at the seriousness of his face, which was saying much because Éomer was known for his severe countenance.

"Aragorn, before I take my leave, I would thank you once more for the healing you bestowed upon my sister. Her life was the greatest gift I have ever received. I shall forever be in your debt for that, and it is not a debt I take lightly."

Aragorn did not know how to respond for a moment. "I have wished joy for Éowyn since I first met her, and seeing the happiness she and Faramir bring each other is a delight to my heart. Through Cirion and Eorl the Young our countries were tied by oath and treaty. Through Faramir and Éowyn our countries are be bound by love and family. That is all the thanks that I require."

Aragorn rode over to Faramir and repeated the warrior's gesture with his Steward. "Came back safely to us, Faramir; your country and your king need you."

Faramir graced his King with such a look of adoration and admiration that no words were necessary. With a silent squeeze to his friend's elbow he took his leave as the column began its slow journey home.

Aragorn remained watching until the column was small to his sight, and only then did he turn Brego and begin his journey back through the levels of his city. So deep in thought was he that he barely noticed the nods and gestures of salute gifted him by his people.

OoOoOoOoOo

The weather was perfect as Éomer's column began turning towards home. With each mile they covered, Éomer felt the invisible band of tension that seemed wound around his chest loosen. How stifled he had felt inside the city! As he rode, the warrior's eyes constantly scanned the horizon seeking any sign of ambush. Even now, after the war, there were still threats that Éomer could not ignore.

They had been riding for approximately three hours when Éomer looked back over his shoulder for his lieutenant. "Gamling," he called. Turning back to the front, he found himself squinting into the brilliant sunlight as he waited. He had been thinking long and hard about this problem and felt that now was the time to broach the subject with his trusted advisor.

Gamling pulled his chestnut mare from the column and loped forward to fall into formation beside his king. In truth he had been expecting this summons for some time. He had known that something was troubling his King by the set of his shoulders and had been patiently waiting for Éomer to share his thoughts.

Éomer glanced at Gamling as the two rode side by side. "When we reach Edoras, send a detachment to Snowbourne. Have them _escort_ Garoth back to the Meduseld with all haste."

At Gamling's questioning look the king continued. "He is not under arrest…yet, but I _will_ know why none of the riders of Snowbourne answered their king's call to arms."

Gamling nodded and continued riding beside the king. He had, of course, puzzled over this himself and known that Éomer would be infuriated by the apparent lack of response to Théoden King's call for the éoreds. The beacons had been lit and Rohan was duty bound to answer. A breach of honor that serious could not and would not be overlooked by Éomer.

"Gamling," Éomer continued, "you _did_ speak directly with Garoth to deliver the king's summons, did you not?"

"Yes, my lord, I did," Gamling affirmed, "but I did not linger to hear any answer as I was in great haste to cover the Riddermark and meet the king at Dunharrow."

"No answer was required, " growled Éomer, "only obedience." His scowl deepened as he continued to think about the possible reasons that Garoth would have withheld his éored. None of it made any sense to him. How could a Marshal of the Mark not answer his king's call? It was inconceivable to Éomer.

"Of course, my lord," agreed Gamling, "but perhaps…"

When Gamling hesitated the king turned to look at his friend and lieutenant. "What, Gamling, just say it. We have known each other too long for words to be held between us now."

Gamling looked down at the pommel of his horse, ashamed of what he was about to suggest. "I was going to say that perhaps they were afraid to come," he offered weakly.

"Afraid?" snorted Éomer. His outburst was delivered with such vehemence that several of the troop behind him looked up sharply and Firefoot danced sideways in agitation. Éomer soothed the horse and allowed his temper to cool slightly before continuing. For now, this conversation was between he and Gamling and he would not have his éored drawn into the discussion until he had ascertained all the facts.

Gamling wisely kept his silence and just continued to ride beside the king.

When he had controlled himself sufficiently to carry on the conversation in a softer tone, Éomer continued. "Did you not feel some fear? Did I not?" He shook his head disgustedly. "Did my sister feel fear when she stood between the Nazgûl and her King? Do you think that the Halfling Merry did not feel fear? Did it stop him from riding by his king's side…form defying his king to ride by his side?"

Gamling could only nod his head in agreement as he wisely let his king vent his pent up feelings.

Éomer concentrated on taking deep breaths for a few moments while he flexed his fists. More than anything he wished that his uncle were here to advise him on how to handle this situation. How could it have come to the point that he was king? It should have been Théodred, not him. Théo was groomed to be king; would have been a natural king. For the hundredth time Éomer prayed to his uncle's shade for guidance. Firefoot was becoming more difficult to handle as he reacted to the tension emanating from Éomer, so the king forced himself to take another deep breath and calm down before his mount became any more difficult. He wasn't in the mood the have to do battle with his recalcitrant horse on top of everything else. The discussion of fear touched a chord in Éomer's memory and he followed that thought to a remembrance that he kept treasured in his heart.

_It was the night they had ridden so hard practicing cavalry warfare; the night he had declared his oath of loyalty to his uncle and his King._

_For some time after his declaration, the two had enjoyed a comfortable peace, each lost in his own thoughts with only the sound of the crackling fire to break the utter silence with its soft song. _

"_Uncle," Éomer began slowly, "have you ever been afraid?" _

"_Afraid?" Théoden questioned. "Afraid," he mused. "I suppose all of us have been afraid at some time or other. It's not the being afraid that matters, though, it is what you do with it. Why do you ask?"_

"_When we were galloping today…at first I was…I felt…"_

"_Fear?" Théoden supplied._

_Éomer hung his head. Shame reddened his cheeks._

"_I see," Théoden nodded. He absentmindedly pulled a stalk from the nearby weeds and chewed on the end as he pondered how best to explain the emotion of fear to his nephew. "Fear can be a good thing and it can be a bad thing."_

_Éomer's head raised only slightly as his eyes sought those of uncle. "What do you mean?" he questioned, frowning as he puzzled over the thought. "How can fear in a warrior be a good thing?" Éomer tried unsuccessfully to imagine any of the warriors he knew being afraid. Could it possibly be that his father had felt fear? Théoden's voice pulled him from his reverie. _

"_Fear can make you aware. When you are a leader of men, you must always be aware that your decisions will affect their lives, could cost them their lives. That is never easy. You must always be conscious that those lives are precious and must not be cast away at ease, for you will forever see their faces when you close your eyes at night." The king sighed deeply, lost in his own memories for a moment. "Each man in your command has family, loved ones who depend on him. It is like a circle, Éomer. The king defends Rohan. The king is supported by his éoreds; the éoreds are made up of men who are supported by families, who are, in the end, the life blood of Rohan. Do you understand?"_

"_No," the child answered honestly. "It is confusing."_

_Théoden chuckled to himself. "I know. It was confusing to me as well, when my father tried to explain it."_

"_So fear is a good thing? "Éomer asked._

"_Not always," responded the king._

"_I don't understand, Uncle," admitted the frustrated boy._

_Théoden was silent for a few moments as he silently sought the Bema's guidance on how to explain these deep truths to his nephew. "Fear is neither good nor bad, Éomer; it is what men do with it that makes the difference. Fear can be bad when men allow it to paralyze them. Fear can be a prison of our own making when we let it steal away our resolve to do what we know must be done."_

_That was something the boy could understand, and he nodded his acceptance. _

"_Do not despair, Éomer, you will come to understand it all in time. The world changes and all that once was strong now proves unsure. But in the world there **are** constants."_

_Éomer turned serious brown eyes to his uncle. "Like fire?"_

"_Stronger than fire, Éomer is loyalty…the loyalty of old friends, the loyalty of a man to his wife, his family…"_

"_And the loyalty of the éoreds to their king," Éomer interjected softly. _

_Théoden looked fondly at his nephew. How like his father he was. Théoden hoped that from wherever his spirit resided that Éomund could see the kind of young man his son was becoming. _

"_No king could ask for more, Éomer." _

_Théoden noticed the yawn that Éomer tried to stifle. "Well, my boy, I don't know about you but these old bones of mine are tired and could use some sleep. What say you that we turn in for the night and get an early start back to Edoras in the morning?"_

"_I will take the first watch," offered Éomer. _

"_No, you get some sleep. I will gather some more wood for the fire and wake you for your watch in four or five hours. No, off you go, not arguments. You've had a big day and a growing lad needs his rest."_

_Théoden watched as Éomer crawled under his blankets with a most contented look on his face. "Uncle, this has been a good day, has it not?"_

_Théoden kneeled down beside Éomer and made a show of tucking in the blankets before he ruffled the unruly blonde hair. "Yes," he agreed, "this has been a good day."_

"My lord?"

Éomer started slightly and turned to Gamling with a slightly puzzled look on his face. "Gamling?"

"I suggested that this would be a good place to pause for the noon meal. There is fresh water here and grazing for the horses."

Éomer looked around and concurred that this would be an ideal place for the column to rest. "Make it so, Gamling, and see that the caisson is placed in the shade."

_TBC_


	5. Chapter 5 Someone to Love Them

**To The King**

**Chapter Five**

**Someone to Love and Teach Them**

See disclaimer on Chapter One

This work could never have been posted without the encouragement and beta reading of DJSparkles. Thank you, my friend, for giving me the courage I need to allow others to see my work.

_I am only one,  
But still I am one.  
I cannot do everything,  
But still I can do something;  
And because I cannot do everything  
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do. _

_-Edward Everett Hale, Lend a Hand_

The company gathered in the clearing that had been chosen for the meal break. A copse of trees ran along the stream providing shade from the noon sun. Piquet lines were established and makeshift tethers loosely circled the horses within the field where the grazing was plentiful and a watering hole was available for the mounts. The supply wagons pulled into an unrestricting ring around the grazing war horses, though it was more a custom than a requirement. The great war horses of Rohan were well trained and would stay near their masters.

The wagons contained the tents and provisions for the long trip home, which would be made at a much slower place than was normal to accommodate the final procession of Théoden King. The group would pause in each village along the way to allow the populace the chance to show their respect to the fallen king. In addition to the normal provisions, there were extra rations sent by King Elessar to sustain Rohan through the long winter months when the chill wind barreled out of the mountains and the land was rendered barren in its icy grip. Most of the crops that had filled the barns of the Horse Lords were lost to the fires of the Dundlendings and the hordes of Mordor. What the mob couldn't carry away they delighted in burning, for death and destruction were the fuels that fed their frenzies.

With the horses properly fed and watered, the warriors gathered into sitting small groups in the shade of the trees bordering the stream and talked softly amongst themselves while enjoying the provisions of the trail. Éomer walked a small way away from the group and knelt by the running water. Cupping his hands, he dipped them into the cool water and splashed it onto his face and the back of his neck, washing away the dust of the road. Then he filled the water pouch he'd brought from his saddle. A soldier quickly learned not to pass by fresh water for a man could never tell when he might again have the opportunity to refresh his supply. Rising, Éomer walked back over to where Éowyn and Faramir were eating their noon repast of crusty white bread, thick slices of buttery cheese, and fresh apples under the shade of a great elm tree. Gamling sat leaning with his back to the tree, chewing on a crisp apple, his eyes were closed as he savored the tart taste and enjoyed the quiet conversation taking place between the pair, who were debating the relative merits of the Rohirric as opposed to the Gondorian cavalry style.

Éomer snorted has he caught the tail end of the conversation. He leaned over to help himself to some of the bread and cheese and then took a seat beside his lieutenant. "What say you, Gamling? Who would you rather face down?"

Gamling slowly opened his eyes to see that his king as well as the Steward of Gondor and Éowyn were watching him with great expectation. Sensing a diplomatic trap in the making, the wily commander chose his words wisely. "Neither, my Lord."

Faramir laughed out loud and clapped Gamling on the shoulder. "Well done, my friend! When you have finished your days of riding with the King of Rohan I will have room for you on my diplomatic staff, for that was a tactful answer if ever I heard one."

Gamling very nearly choked on a piece of apple when he heard those words, and Éomer quirked an eyebrow at his friend. "What? Are you not prepared to bandy words with the fine folk in the White City for the rest of your life?"

"Enough you two!" laughed Éowyn. "You are going to scare poor Gamling to death."

"The White City is a beautiful place," defended Faramir.

"Aye, it is," agreed Gamling quickly, still struggling to prevent a diplomatic incident. It's just too, uh, too…"

"Rocky?" supplied Éomer drolly.

"Grand, I was going to say," finished Gamling. "It's too grand for a simple horseman like me." Gamling nodded as though quite satisfied with his diplomatic prowess.

Before he could reply, Éomer caught sight of a young boy sitting with his back against one of the wagon wheels while he ate his lunch alone. He seemed awfully young to be a driver and there was something vaguely familiar about him to the king. "Gamling, who is that lad over there?"

Éomer nodded in the direction of the wagons when Gamling looked to see who it was that Éomer was referencing.

Spotting the boy that had caught his king's attention, he smiled as he looked back at the king. "You don't remember him, my Lord? That's Hálith, son of Háma. He practically grew up in the Meduseld."

"Hálith," mused Éomer. "I have not seen him for a long time. After his mother died, Háma did not bring him to the Golden Hall as in the past." Éomer thought back to all the times he'd very nearly tripped over the horde of young ones playing in the halls of his home. The children belonged to the women who worked in the kitchens or as maids in the Meduseld and the children were always welcomed to accompany them, for family was a bedrock of the culture of Rohan. Many of the women who worked in the Great Hall were the wives of the king's own guard. This arrangement worked well, allowing the families to be close together. Éomer had shared many a meal with in the Great Hall with the king, the guards, and their families. He loved the raucous lunches with the rambunctious children being shushed by their mothers while the fathers laughed and swapped stories with the king. They were very good memories for the young king.

"Hálith," he repeated thoughtfully. "How old is he? Is he not too young to be driving wagons?"

"He is an orphan, my Lord," explained Gamling. "I know that he is too young to be a wagon master, but he is also too young to be in the guard. I took him into the service to give him a home."

Éomer continued to stare at the boy pensively. His eyes were on Hálith, but his mind was far away on another orphan.

O-o-O-o-O

_Éomer held Éowyn's hand as the words were spoken over Théodwyn's grave. The soft cries of the little girl for her mother were nearly drowned out by the downpour of rain that started suddenly, causing the villagers of the Eastfold to scatter for their homes as the wind buffeted them harshly. The only ones who remained unmoving were the two children, their uncle and cousin. Théoden stood behind Éomer and Éowyn with a hand protectively on the shoulder of each of them. Théodred stood beside his father somberly looked down at the grave of his aunt. He couldn't help but think about how it was for him when he lost his own mother._

_Éowyn turned to look back at Théoden and Théodred. Tears warred with the rain drops streaking down her face, each fighting to overwhelm the other. "I want Mommy, Theo," she cried. _

_Théodred took his little niece into his arms. "Come on, little love, let Theo take you in by the fire." Giving his father a nod, Théodred turned and walked away carrying Éowyn._

_Théoden still stood behind Éomer, but now with both hands on the boy's shoulders. He was prepared to stand there in the rain all night, if that is what Éomer needed. The king gently squeezed the boy's shoulders, signaling his love and support. Théoden could feel the slight shake in the shoulders as Éomer began to shiver in the cold rain. Still they stood, silent sentinels in the gathering dusk._

"_Uncle?"_

"_Yes, Éomer."_

"_Are they together now?" Intense brown eyes fixed on the king…eyes that were too old for a lad this young…eyes that had seen too much pain…but eyes that were dry, devoid of tears._

_How to answer? The king smiled softly at his young nephew. "They rest together in the earth of the Eastfold, a place they both loved. I believe their spirits are together now as well."_

_Éomer seemed to consider his uncle's words for a moment. With a deep breath, the man-child turned back to look once again at the fresh gravesite. Slowly, and with great deliberation, Éomer held out his hand and dropped the bit of earth that he'd held there. The dirt had turned to mud in the pouring rain but he seemed not to notice. "Goodbye, Mother. Do not fear for Éowyn; I will take care of her."_

_The king noted that the boy did not mention himself. Looking down at the wet earth, he said his own goodbyes to his sister. 'Ah, Wyn, these are dark days in which we live, but I foresee that your son will be a light and a blessing to our people, for brave and strong is his heart. I will do my best to raise him as you would wish. And,' he thought with a smile, 'we will both take care of Éowyn, as will Teddy.' With a sigh, Théoden raised his face to the sky beseeching Bema's guidance in dealing with the two grief stricken children, especially Éomer, who had not shed a single tear, at least that any one had seen. That fact worried Théoden, for he feared the boy was burying his grief so deeply that it would take a long time to surface, and who knew how much damage it would do in the meantime. _

"_Come, Éomer, let us go inside with your sister and Théodred. We will get an early start in the morning."_

"_We are going to Edoras?" inquired the boy quietly._

"_We are going to Edoras," nodded the king, "your new home."_

O-o-O-o-O

"My Lord?" asked Gamling. "Would you like me to reassign the boy?"

Éomer considered his Lieutenant's question. "Not just yet, but a soldier's barracks is not the place for lad. Let me think on it, Gamling."

"Yes, my Lord."

Éomer laid his bread and cheese down beside him as he continued to watch Hálith. He was troubled that the son of Háma, the king's valued doorward would be so alone, and yet, he realized, there must be many other orphaned children across the Mark after the losses in the war. Suddenly and clearly he knew exactly what he had to do. This was not to be allowed. He could not have a kingdom where children were raising themselves.

"What are you thinking, brother?" inquired Éowyn. "I know that look."

Éomer remained silent for a moment before giving his sister a searching look. "Éowyn, how long are you planning to stay in Rohan before your wedding?"

Éowyn was surprised by the query and sent a questioning glance at Faramir. "As long as you need me, brother, you know that. Faramir and I have talked about our situation and he completely understands that my presence might be required until you have the state of the Mark under control. We both know that there are great obstacles facing our country."

Éomer nodded slowly. "I would not ask you for a moment longer than absolutely necessary, sister. But there is great need at home and I have a mission of utmost importance that I must place upon your shoulders."

Éowyn's curiosity was piqued. "What is it?"

"Éowyn is not as physically strong as she was before her fight with the Witch King, Éomer," interjected Faramir worriedly. He glanced quickly at Éowyn. "Now, my love, before you skewer me know that I speak only from concern for you. You have come a long way, but you are not completely healed."

"Peace, Faramir," soothed Éomer. "The mission I have for Éowyn can be handled from Edoras."

"Will you two stop taking about me!" snapped Éowyn. "What is this mission Éomer?"

"I am going to send riders throughout the Mark to find every orphaned child and bring them to Edoras. Those children who have already been taken in by relatives will be left there, but those who have not will be housed in the Meduseld while we find families for them. Until that time, their King will be a father to them."

All conversation had stopped at the king's pronouncement and Éomer now found himself the uncomfortable recipient of everyone's attention.

Faramir was first to find his voice. "That is a fine and noble undertaking, Éomer."

Éowyn had tears in her eyes as she got up from her place beside Faramir and moved over to her brother. Falling on her knees beside him, she threw her arms around his neck, completely unconcerned for once about the public display of affection. "I'm so proud of you, brother. I will help you in every way possible." She leaned back on her heels and placed her palm lovingly against Éomer's cheek. "We will see that every child in Rohan has someone to love them and teach them, as we had uncle and Theo."

Éomer smiled into his sister's tearful eyes. "No child of the Mark will be alone so long as I am king, and we will begin with Háleth."

TBC

A/N An excellent question was asked about whether or not Théoden was embalmed, since it has been months since his death and because of Éomer's order to be sure the caisson was placed in the shade. I am going on the assumption that Gondor did use embalming techniques for its rulers based on two things. First of all, the well known and documented embalming used by the Egyptians, which interestingly enough has recently been analyzed to show the use of cedar oil. Secondly, upon a statement made by Denethor in _The Return of the King:_ "No long sleep of death embalmed…" Éomer's request to have the caisson placed in the shade was merely an emotional and respectful one.


	6. Chapter 6 The Long Goodbye

**To The King**

**Chapter Six**

**The Long Goodbye**

_"What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal." Albert Pike_

It was early afternoon and the sun was just past its zenith, shining today with a brilliance that dazzled the eye and made the landscape appear to shimmer in the afternoon rays. Squinting up at the fiery ball, Éomer wiped his brow. It was much warmer than usual for this time of year, and he sent a silent prayer of thanks to Béma for the good fortune. Not only would the warmer weather facilitate the travel of the citizens of Rohan to Edoras for the funeral, but more importantly, the king realized, each day of good weather bought them more time to prepare provisions for the harsh winter to come. Every additional day of preparation would buy more lives of his people before springtime breathed her fresh breath and once again graced their lands with new life. Éomer meant to see that every life that could possibly be snatched from death's cold jaws would be saved.

The gloomy company was finally nearing its final destination after the long, sorrowful journey home, and it was none too soon, for Éomer was chaffing at the slow progress. Three days previously, he had sent Éowyn and Faramir riding ahead to Edoras to insure that all the preparations for Théoden's funeral were in place. The couple, accompanied by the guards from Gondor for protection, could travel the distance much faster than the slower procession, which stopped or slowed in every village. There was much for Éowyn to prepare, and Faramir would be a wonderful aid to her due to his administrative knowledge and experience. Edoras would be crowded with people, and arrangements needed to be made for their accommodations and safety. Those fortunate enough to have relatives in the city would, of course, stay with family, but all the others would be camping outside the gates. Additional guards would need to be posted, for although no attack was expected, wild animals still roamed the grassy plain searching for prey. Éowyn planned to have breakfast porridge prepared for the people, and the Meduseld would also be providing additional pots of stew or soup to supplement the meager provisions that would be the lot of most of those arriving. She hoped to insure that all would have two hot meals per day.

Éomer would have preferred to send part of his Éored with Éowyn, but did not want to risk offending Faramir or the soldiers from Gondor, so he had set aside his better judgment this time and allowed them to ride off without any of the riders of Rohan in attendance. Éowyn, of course, had easily read the look on her brother's face and assured him that she was not five years old any longer and could take care of herself before galloping off with her future husband and the Gondorian guards hot in pursuit. Éomer had merely shaken his head as Gamling, riding beside the king, chuckled.

"She is going to set Gondor on its ear before all is said and done," predicted the lieutenant.

"I fear for her, Gamling," sighed Éomer.

"Sire?'

"I fear for her spirit, old friend," corrected the king. "Éowyn was not made for a rock city; I believe it will stifle her."

"Éomer, my king, will you listen to some advice from an _old friend_?"

Éomer looked at Gamling and nodded his head. "Always," he promised.

"You carry much responsibility on your shoulders. Do not look for more. Faramir is a good man and will make Éowyn a good husband. He will see to her needs _and _her spirit."

The pair rode in silence for a while as Éomer pondered the words of his lieutenant. He recognized the wisdom of the words, but knowing and doing are often worlds apart. For so long he had borne responsibility for those he loved, beginning with Éowyn and continuing on to his people when he had become Third Marshal of the Mark. It almost seemed he had carried that burden for his whole life, but never more than these last few months.

O-o-O-o-O

_It was raining as Éomer and his éored approached the Fords of Isen. They had expected to rendezvous with Théodred that morning as the Second Marshal's troop returned from a patrol of the Gap of Rohan. Reports had come to them of unusual activity in this area and Théodred had entreated permission from Théoden to investigate. Gríma had persuaded the king to deny the request and Théodred had stormed from the Meduseld, frustrated with impotent rage at the advisor and his father's inability to act without him. Meeting up with Éomer outside, he had confided to his cousin that he was going to patrol through the Gap of Rohan, Gríma be damned. Éomer had nodded his assent and cautioned Theo to be careful, promising to meet him in three days at the border of the Westemnet._

_When they failed to appear, Éomer had taken his Éored in this direction expecting to meet up with the missing company. With each mile they crossed, dread grew strong in the young Marshal's heart, wrapping cold tendrils of doubt around him. Squinting through rain splattered eyes, his heart fell at the sight of vultures circling above the Ford, for where vultures gathered, carrion was close by._

_Spurring on his steed, Éomer rushed forward, followed closely by his troop. Rounding the last sharp corner and descending into the Ford, Éomer's heart sank. There, before him, lay a ghastly sight…Théodred's Éored. They had obviously put up a tremendous fight, but it seemed obvious that none survived._

"_Théodred," breathed Éomer, as much to himself as any other. "Find the king's son!" he commanded as the rest of his troop gathered at the site. Dismounting from Firefoot, Éomer joined his men in searching through the bodies. Unbelievably, even the magnificent Rohirric steeds had been slaughtered, a loss that was almost as devastating to the Horse lords as that of their riders. _

_From were he was kneeling by his fallen brother's side, Bregond looked up at Éomer with hate filled eyes. "Mordor will pay for this."_

"_These orcs aren't from Mordor," replied Éomer kicking over a dead orc to reveal the white painted handprint. It was as he and Théo had suspected; Saruman was somehow in league with Mordor or breeding orcs for his own foul agenda. As if their situation weren't dire enough, Rohan now faced a new threat from their western side. A deep frown marred the handsome face. 'How in Béma's name was he to fight a war on two fronts as beleaguered as they were and with the king bewitched by Wormtongue?' wondered the young Marshal. 'There had to be a way to reach his uncle before it was too late for all of them.'_

"_My Lord Éomer, over here," called one of his men, from the water's edge, interrupting the Marshal's thoughts._

_Éomer raced over to where the man knelt expecting to see Thoédred's lifeless body, but instead he saw Théo still tenuously clung to life. "He's alive," Éomer breathed as hope flared within his soul. Picking up his cousin, Eomer moved as quickly as he could to his stallion, making his way over and around the butchered bodies of his friends. Gently, Éomer handed Théo to Bregond while he mounted and then took his cousin back into his arms. "Bregond," he called from horseback, "take four men and bury our brothers."_

_Éomer paused when he saw the stricken look on Bregand's face. "It is the best that we can do for now, my friend. I give you my word their sacrifice will not be forgotten and they shall be honored."_

_Bregond nodded sadly. Coming to attention, he placed his clenched fist over his heart in salute to his Marshal. "It will be as you say, my Lord."_

_Éomer could not return the salute because he held Théodred, but his eyes spoke of his devotion to his men, devotion that none of them ever questioned and returned in full measure. He held the man's eyes for a moment longer before looking around to his men. "The rest of you follow me!" _

_They rode hard to reach Edoras. Thankfully the rain stopped and Éomer prayed it was a good omen, for Théodred still lived as they entered the city. As Éomer galloped up the hill, the villagers, alerted by the call of the guards at the gate, came from their doors to see what was happening. A great cry went up as the people beheld the king's heir in such a state. Éomer could hear the grief of the people and it pained him to be the bearer of more ill tidings._

_Despair clung to Edoras in a palpable mantle. Hope seemed far away from this people who had endured bad times for so long and with such courage. Try as they might, the king's guard could not keep secret the bewitchment of Théoden from the city. News like that could never hope to be kept quiet in a city as compact and family oriented as Edoras. Nearly everyone in town was related to someone who worked in the Golden Hall or the Royal stables in one capacity or the other, and the loss was a grievous one to bear. It was as though the much beloved and gentle man that so often walked the streets of his city inquiring as to the condition and well being of his people had ceased to exist. The people, fearing for their future and the future of Rohan, had placed their faith in Théodred. In another cruel stroke of fate, that faith now seemed dashed. _

_What little hope was left now fell squarely on Éomer. The people of Edoras had watched the son of Éomund grow into the capable and much admired man that he was, but what hope was there for this young one if both the king and Théodred had been lost to the dark forces? Indeed, what hope was there for Rohan itself? _

_Éomer took the steps to the Golden Hall two at a time. Both guards came to attention as the Third Marshal approached and were horrified to see who it was he carried. Pausing only briefly, Éomer called to the stricken doorward. "Háma, send for the healer!" _

_Rather than enter through the great hall, Éomer went around the outside of the building to enter Théodred's room through the outer door. As gently as he could, he laid his cousin onto his bed and began to remove his armor so that his wounds could be better assessed. "Hold on, Théo," he crooned as he worked quickly. "I'm going to get these wet things off of you and then warm you up. You'll be fine, you'll see." Éomer kept up a running dialogue as he worked, needing to hear the reassuring words almost as much as his cousin did. _

_Éomer was no healer, but he had tended plenty of battle wounds, and what was revealed to his eyes when he removed Theo's cuirass told him all he needed to know. Hope was lost; his beloved Théo was lost. No one could survive with such a wound. Choking back a sob, Éomer covered Théodred with a blanket, tenderly taking Théo's hand in his own to hold as he prayed silently for his cousin's spirit to find peace._

_The crash of the door interrupted Éomer as Éowyn rushed into the room, having been alerted by the call of the guards. Unknowingly, Éomer began to rock slightly back and forth as he fought with his emotions. Éowyn looked at him questioningly, but he could only nod at the blanket covering Théodred. _

_Steeling herself, Éowyn pulled back the blanket to see the wound to Theo's lower abdomen. It was an ugly wound that had punctured his organs…very clearly mortal. The sight stole her breath away. Reflexively she looked back to Éomer as though he could make things better like he always did, but what she saw was a dagger to her heart. The eyes that met hers were as haunted and broken as she had ever seen, and Éowyn realized a truth that she had only imagined before, that her brother, her rock, needed her as much as she needed him. That realization was empowering. As heartbroken as she was, Éowyn found a new purpose and strength. She would be the strength her brother needed now. _

_The thought was halted by the arrival of the healer and two of his helpers. Éomer and Éowyn excused themselves and stepped into the hallway._

"_What happened?" she asked quietly._

"_It was an ambush, by the looks of it, at the Fords of Isen."_

"_Isen?" questioned Éowyn. "Dunlendings that far?"_

"_They weren't Dunlendings; they were orcs, from Isengard"_

_Éowyn digested the information. "Do you have proof of this?"_

"_Oh yes," Éomer said slowly. "Come with me."_

_They walked together down the hall to the outer doorway leading to the terrace running the length of the Meduseld. They continued out and around to the front, where Éomer's Éored waited for him. Stopping at the top of the stairs, Éomer motioned for Liam, his second in command, to bring the helmet. _

_Liam jumped down from his horse and ascended the steps. "My Lord," declared the Horse Lord, handing the hated helmet to Eomer._

"_Thank you, Liam," answered Eomer softly. _

"_I will see to Firefoot, my Lord," offered the man._

_Eomer looked away briefly to regain his composure, hating himself for this sudden weakness, and then nodded his thanks to Liam._

_Taking the proffered helmet, Eomer showed it to Éowyn. "We've seen this image before," he told her. "It is the white hand of Saruman."_

_O-o-O-o-O_

A soft murmuring behind him pulled Éomer's attention back to the present and the king turned to look back to the source. He and Gamling were riding at the very front of the procession followed by the Honor Guard and the Caisson bearing Théoden's body. Behind the Caisson rode Éomer's personal Éored followed by the supply wains. The exclamation he'd heard had come from Liam, for none of the Honor Guard would have spoken.

"My Lord," whispered Gamling with a smile, nodding his head forward.

So deep in though had Éomer been that he had not even realized they were less than a league from the city and he now looked in that direction. Lining both sides of the road leading into the city were hundreds of the Rohirrim waiting at attention for their two kings to pass. Each rider wore the green cloaks of Rohan and each spear was adorned with the king's own banner. The women of Rohan must have worked tirelessly to produce so many, and Éomer was deeply touched by this display of devotion to Théoden.

Unconsciously, every man in the procession sat a bit straighter, proud to be a part of this moment and of this people.

Éomer turned to Gamling. "Retrieve Herugrim from the wagons and place it upon the Caisson. Théoden King will not enter his city without his sword."

TBC

_I want to thank all of you who are reading and especially those of you who are reviewing. Your comments give me the fuel and faith that I need to continue._

_I would also like to thank DJSparkles for her continuing and tireless inspiration and encouragement. She is not just my beta, she is my friend and one-gal-cheering section! When I doubt myself, which is often, it is Dejee and my incredible reviewers who keep me going!_

_See disclaimer on Chapter One._


	7. Chapter 7, Prison of Doubt

**To the King**

**Chapter Seven**

**Prison of Doubt**

It was not only the brightness of Anor shining down upon them in fiery glory that caused Éomer to blink furiously at the moisture threatening to fall from his eyes. The heat, the weariness of the long journey, the weight of worries that had burdened him all fell away from his shoulders, at least for a while, as his gaze took in the hundreds of riders formed in two lines of honor and his heart swelled in pride.

"They honor Théoden," he breathed softly as he watched the green and white banners fluttering in the ever present winds sweeping from the White Mountains.

"As they honor you, my Lord," added Gamling rejoining his king after placing Herugrim, Théoden's sword, upon his banner draped coffin. If he noticed Éomer's struggle he did not acknowledge it.

"Me?" frowned Éomer, looking at his lieutenant in genuine puzzlement. "I have done naught for which to be honored."

"Tis not true, my Lord," asserted Gamling emphatically. "It was you that kept the exiled éoreds together when Gríma had bewitched the King. You turned the tide at Helm's Deep and led the Rohirrim to the king's side. Many songs are already being sung about that brave charge. You were by our king as we rode down the enemy on the Pelennor, and you led what was left of us into the very teeth of Sauron's stronghold.

"It was Aragorn that led us to the Morannon," corrected Éomer embarrassed to be the object of such accolades.

"No sire," affirmed the lieutenant. "Aragorn may have been at the head of the army, but no man commands the Horse Lords but the one who has won their loyalty, and that man is you, our King. We were proud to follow you that day, even if it meant riding to our deaths."

So moved was Éomer by Gamling's impassioned pronouncement, he could only shake his head in reply. "It is I who am proud to be before you," he added softly looking back at the lines of warriors, while silently cursing his lack of control. He didn't know what had happened to him to so threaten his composure these past weeks, but he was most uncomfortable with the rush of emotions he had been experiencing since finding Éowyn seemingly dead on the Pelennor. It was as though a dam had broken and the years of pent up, forbidden feelings had burst forth, finally freed from the prison to which he had banished them.

As the procession began to wind its way through the waiting warriors, each riders would place his right fist across his heart in tribute to the two kings. Occasionally a voice could be heard calling out a quiet affirmation of loyalty to the king.

"My Lord."

"We are honored, Sire."

"We follow Éomer!"

As the King, followed by the caisson, entered the gates of Edoras a great cry rang out from the ranks. "Hail Éomer King! Hail Théoden King!"

Standing outside the Meduseld, waiting for the procession to snake its way "home" to the Golden Hall, Éowyn was deeply moved by the tributes echoing across the windy plains. Sensing Éowyn's battle to contain her emotions, Faramir moved a bit closer, so that their shoulders were touching, and wrapped his hand around hers in a quiet gesture of support. His eyes never left the procession, and neither did those of Éowyn, but he felt her squeeze his hand in appreciation for the encouragement he offered her. Secure in the Faramir's unconditional love, Éowyn had blossomed like the first fragile flowers of springtime, elusive and delicate, but so sweet of fragrance as to steal the breath of a winter weary soul.

As the son of the Steward of Gondor, Faramir had been raised by the strict code of conduct required of the members of ruling families. It was the most difficult at such times as these, when one could not even grieve in private, but must appear strong and resolute before the people lest they become fearful or worse yet disaffected. His sire, Denethor, had ruled with an iron fist, ever mindful of court protocol and that the welfare of Gondor rested upon the Steward, until the time that a King would return to claim the throne. Faramir knew what it was to have to maintain a "public" face when your heart was breaking, and spared a quick glance at Éowyn. He was so very proud of his brave and beautiful lady, and longed for the day when she would be his wife.

In the three days since they had arrived here, Éowyn had worked almost non-stop to see that all was in readiness for the funeral of the King. In addition, she had already tackled the charge placed on her by Éomer, the daunting task of accounting for every orphaned child in the Mark. After just these few days a half a dozen young children were residing in the Meduseld. Within hours of her arrival these children had been located from within the city of Edoras. Several others from the city had already been taken in and given loving homes by family members. Éowyn had decided to use Théodred's room for the children, moving in small beds for them. She felt that Théo would be pleased to see his room used as a place of comfort for the hurting innocents.

Faramir, especially, had been drawn to the children and connected with them almost immediately, telling them stories and teaching them games that he and Boromir had played as children. The little girls especially had thrived under his caring attention, unused as they were to being fussed over as a son would be. It wasn't that Rohan did not cherish its daughters, but sons were what kept the land safe, the ones who raised and protected the magnificent Rohirric herds. Éowyn watched with delight as Faramir had held a little girl on his lap and showed her how to hold a buttercup flower under her chin to see if the magic was there! The little girl had squealed in glee when the other children assured her that the yellow was, indeed, reflected on her chin. The seven children – four boys and three girls – were now standing in a line behind Faramir and Éowyn.

Éomer drew Firefoot to a halt at the foot of the steps of the Golden Hall. He looked up at Éowyn and his heart clenched at the pain reflected in her lovely face.

Following his king's gaze, Gamling dismounted and took Firefoot's reins. "Go to your sister, Sire, I shall see to the horses, and the honor guard will see that Théoden King is laid to rest on his bier."

Éomer dismounted Firefoot and took the steps two at a time. Éowyn went to him immediately and was enfolded in his arms. The king placed a gentle kiss on the top of her head as he spoke softly in her ear, where only she could hear. He knew her feelings for he shared them. This was the last time their beloved uncle would enter the Meduseld with them and their hearts and minds had gone back to the first time he had brought them here to live after the deaths of their parents. He had filled their lives with love and laughter for so many years that they could not even envision a world bereft of both Théodred and Théoden.

Éowyn looked up at Éomer and smiled with such tenderness that it warmed him as though Anor had broken through a storm clouded sky and shined on him with a brightness that brought renewal of hope and a reaffirmation of all good things to a barren land.

No one, save those two, would ever know what words passed between them; what memory evoked buoyed them through the next few days and gave strength of purpose to the two orphans who had been cursed with loss and yet blessed with so much love in their lives.

Éowyn stepped back to stand beside Faramir and motioned for the children to step forward. They had practiced diligently to perfect their greeting for the king, but now that the moment had arrived their little hearts were pounding with dread. Shyly, but with great decorum, the seven moppets stepped before this giant of a man and bowed. Once they had completed their group bow they solemnly pronounced, "Westu Éomer Hal!" Deeply affected, Éomer frowned as he fought to contain his emotions, an effort at which he had already been sorely tested in the past few minutes. The youngest child, a three year old little girl named Thela, mistaking the fierceness of the look for disapproval burst into tears and fled behind Faramir's legs, where she clung as though the wolves of Isengard were nipping at her heels.

Éomer, devastated that he should so frighten the child the first time she even met him, went to a knee and gently coaxed the girl from her protective perch behind the Steward of Gondor. In a very few minutes he had the children completely charmed and totally at ease around him. Once he was sure that they did not fear him, he stood and bade them to stand beside him as the Honor Guard brought the casket up the steps with great ceremony. Éomer felt a small hand take hold of his finger and glanced down to see Thela glancing up at him with tearful eyes. Without even thinking he swept up the child to hold in his arms, rubbing small circles in her back to soothe her as he remembered his father doing for him. He felt her arms move around his neck as she relaxed, secure in king's grasp.

Éowyn and Faramir shared an amused look as they watched the children vying for Éomer's attention, each scrambling to be the closest to him. Gently he showed them how to stand at attention as the Honor Guard approached.

The door warden's pulled open the great doors and bowed as Théoden's casket was carried through to the prepared bier, where it would lay for the next two days as the people of Rohan filed past to pay their final respects to Théoden and swear fealty to their new king.

Éomer, the children, Éowyn and Faramir followed the honor guard into the shadowed hall. None others, save Gamling, once he had seen to the stabling of his own mount and Firefoot, would enter the great hall this night. Following Rohirric tradition, this was a night for the family to make their goodbyes and to rejoice at the passing of a good life to the hallowed presence of their forefathers. It was a time of joy as well as mourning as the people of Rohan prepared to farewell a life well lived and heroically given in battle for his people. For a Rohirrim there was no better death than a heroic death.

O-o-O-o-O

Late in the night, when long shadows were cast on the wall by the flickering torches and the earth had fallen into the silence of a night kissed softly by starlight, Éomer and Gamling stood contentedly in the great hall beside the bier bearing Théoden. Mellowed by ale, they were content to relax in each other's company as they passed the night in contemplation and appreciation for the man they both loved and admired.

Éomer had dismissed the Honor Guard until morning so that he and Gamling could spend this time alone with Théoden. It was certainly within the purview for a family and in no way breeched protocol, for in Rohan, family rights were deeply held and deeply respected.

"I failed him," said Gamling sadly as the inevitable winds buffeted past the Golden Hell wailing through small breaches around the doors and windows and causing the flaming sconces to flickers furiously.

Surprised, Éomer cut his eyes over to look his friend. Here in the Meduseld he realized that he had not seen the changes in Gamling that seemed so clear to him now. The man was thinner and his clothing hung loose about him. His eyes were haunted with resignation and despair, and an overwhelming feeling of loss seemed to emanate from his being. Shocked as much for what he was seeing as for what he had failed to see in the past weeks, Éomer sought to reassure the man who he had come to rely upon. "No, Gamling, you were ever by his side. I cannot remember a time when you were not beside him, as loyal as any I've known."

Gamling blushed and looked miserably down at the bier. "In body, perhaps, but I did fail him." He turned to look at his young king, the bravest man he'd ever known, and his own weakness and failure seemed all the more pronounced. "It was at Dunharrow…the night Lord Aragorn rode out to take the Dimholt. My heart failed me because so few men had come. I openly questioned Théoden King and said that there was no hope." His shoulders slumped in shame. "Worse yet, I declared before the men that we could not defeat Mordor."

"I don't remember that," stammered the King, stunned and shaking his head in confusion.

"You were not there, Sire. You had gone to the smithy." Gamling smiled wryly at his King. "You likely would have run me through had you heard me speaking of defeat before the men, and on the very eve of battle."

"What did he do?" questioned Éomer, truly intrigued, for he had never heard of Gamling's outburst. "How did Théoden react?"

"He was magnificent," recalled Gamling fondly. "He stood there looking every bit the king he was and calmly told me and every other man there that we would meet Mordor in battle none the less."

Both men were silent for a moment, each lost in his own thoughts of the man and the events that would follow.

"I was ashamed and proud all at the same time. It was then I realized that I would gladly follow the King of Rohan for however many days Béma would bless me with life. I pray every day that I may be worthy of the faith you place in me, my lord."

"Do not be so hard on yourself, my friend," admonished Éomer. "We all have a moment in time when our hearts fail us and we lose faith. We are blessed if it is only one moment," he added deliberately

"Surely not you, my lord. . ."

Éomer looked at the bier. "Surely not me," he repeated softly…

"_You see much Éomer son of Éomund, too much. You are banished forthwith from the kingdom of Rohan," sneered Gríma._

_Éomer fought the men holding him, these miscreants who had come from Isengard with the worm. They were nothing more than hired thugs. "You have no authority here," Éomer spat._

_Victorious, Gríma had held up the damning document. Unbelievably, there it was, Théoden's signature. "No!" his mind screamed, and he fought even harder until one of the henchmen hit him over the head, stunning him._

_He had been dragged from the Golden Hall and thrown upon Firefoot. A few of his men, still close to the Meduseld to await his orders, had tried to intervene, and Gríma had banished them as well. The rest of his éored had followed him of their own volition, refusing to remain in the city when their marshal was banished._

Éomer closed his eyes forcing the memory from his mind. How knew those feelings of shame and pride of which Gamling had spoken. He knew them intimately. He had felt them that day. He had been deeply shamed to be driven from his own city as though a common criminal and also incredibly proud of the brave men who followed him into exile. It was their sacrifice which had heartened him, and it was for them and for Rohan that he had continued to fight the darkness, even while his heart lay broken in pieces as the image of his uncle's signature upon that paper continued to flash before his eyes, mocking him with its finality.

"Yes, Gamling, I lost heart and worse yet, I blamed my uncle for failing me. Failing me! Can you imagine? He who gave me a home and love, who taught me how to be a warrior and the very meaning of the word honor."

Seeing the depth of passion the memory had evoked in his young king, Gamling remained still, supporting Éomer with his presence.

Éomer mastered his recalcitrant emotions and smiled at Gamling. "You did not fail him, my friend, and he would have been the first to tell you so. He would caution us both not to look backwards, not to let doubts place us in a prison of our own making. We can honor him best by taking that lesson to heart.

Gamling nodded his head slowly, considering the words spoken by his king. They were good words, wise words, and he silently cheered the future he hoped to see for Rohan with this man as her leader. Hefting his mug he held it out for Éomer to match.

"For the honored dead," offered Gamling.

"For the honored dead," echoed Éomer.


	8. Chapter 8, Night of Trials

**To the King**

**Chapter Eight**

**Night of Trial**

"_When I find myself fading, I close my eyes and realize my friends are my energy." Anon_

_My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story._

Éowyn stood in the shadowy hallway outside Théodred's room leaning against the cool stone wall for support. The hour was late and she had checked to be sure the children were all sleeping soundly before turning in herself when she was overcome by a tremendous, crushing wave of grief. Momentarily staggered she sought to rest against the wall until the moment would pass and she could breathe once more. Éowyn was struggling to stifle a sob when she felt a soft touch on her shoulder and found herself enfolded in loving arms.

"Faramir," she breathed.

"Shush, love, just let it out. We are alone here; there is no one to see," Faramir assured, aware of her reticence to display grief before others. He continued to hold her close, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head as she poured out her anguish. Faramir had never seen her cry and had long expected that the grief she struggled so hard to deny would find its way to the surface once she had returned to Rohan. While still in Minas Tirith it was easy for her to pretend that all was as it should be in Rohan, but now, here, she was faced with a truth she could no longer push away.

"I can't…I shouldn't," she stammered whilst sniffing and wiping her eyes on Faramir's shoulder.

"Tears are not a weakness, my love, particularly when they are offered as tribute for a one so dear." Faramir realized that Éowyn was confronting many ghosts on this trip, especially with Théoden's body in the Golden Hall where he had been such a powerful presence. She had been so busy making preparations for the funeral and for the children since they'd arrived that she had not had time to allow for her own heartache. Faramir had watched her bury her feelings in activity each time they threatened to surface and he wanted to be near when they finally did defeat her iron will. He understood that she needed this time, particularly with the more public aspects of the funeral still facing her.

"Tears make me feel weak," Éowyn choked ashamed and yet so very grateful for Faramir's tender support. She ducked her head to his shoulder as a door opened down the hall and one of the guards made his hourly check of the hallways surrounding the great hall. The man immediately noticed the pair, nodded to Faramir and tactfully changed his direction, once again leaving the passage secluded.

"Come with me," Faramir directed, as he turned and led Éowyn to the door leading to the outside terrace. He grabbed a cloak from a peg on the wall as he passed, and wrapped it around her to ward off chill. "You really should be resting, but I am loathe to leave you just yet, and I cannot chance the compromise of your honor should someone see and think the worst of me."

Éowyn could not help but smile through her tears at his tender regard for her reputation. "Indeed, had any suitor been found in my room with me he would likely have been unmanned on the spot by either Éomer or Théodred."

Faramir shuddered and Éowyn actually chuckled softly. "You would be safe, my love, for Éomer knows you to be a man of honor.

"If it's all the same with you, I think I'll not take that chance."

Éowyn smiled again as Faramir led her over to a stone bench where they could sit and look out over the starlit night. She sighed as her gaze fell to the many campfires dotting the landscape outside the city walls.

Faramir followed her gaze. "No."

"No what?" Éowyn inquired, turning to look at her intended.

"No, you are not to even think of what needs to be done for tomorrow. We are going to sit here and talk and you are going to relax and let your mind be at peace for a few hours of the night."

"So states Faramir of Gondor?" she asked fondly.

"So states Faramir of Gondor," he affirmed as he kissed her forehead and wrapped his arm around her.

"I really should go to Éomer," Éowyn worried. "He's so alone."

Faramir's arm held her firm when she made to rise. "He's not alone, Éowyn. Gamling is staying with him."

Since it was obvious that Faramir was intent upon her resting there, she settled into his arms and felt herself slowly relaxing, content to bask in his affection and support. "Uncle loved me very much, but he took Éomer under his wing as a teacher and father. Théo was always the one that would make sure I was happy and secure. He would see that I had pretty hair ribbons or a new doll if I seemed sad." She laid her head onto Faramir's shoulder as the memories filled her with remembered warmth and she wished that Faramir could have known Théodred like she did. "He would take me riding when he saw that I was upset or angry. We would leave the city at a nice dignified pace, but once we were out of sight Theo would put me in front of him, hold me tightly, and then we would race like the wind." She turned slightly to look at Faramir. "He was the best rider in the Mark, you know. I can still feel the pounding of the hooves if I close my eyes and think back. I would laugh and shout with delight because I knew that I was safe within Théo's arms. He would never let me fall."

"I'm glad he was there for you," crooned Faramir as he nuzzled her neck, longing to impart all the love and comfort he could.

"He was so gentle," she continued, lost in her memories. "He would give me horsey rides on his back when it was time for me to go to bed." Éowyn fell silent for a moment just enjoying the fantasy of having her cousin and uncle back with her. She closed her eyes as reality once again reared its head and her memories evaporated like a fog fleeing before the sunlight. "He would have made a wonderful father, as you will."

"I met him a few times, when I was a child," Faramir mused, grateful for the darkness that hid the slight blush that had covered his face at the image of fatherhood her words conjured up. "He was very close to Boromir."

"Yes, I remember that now. I remember Boromir coming here once or twice. I was afraid of him."

Faramir actually laughed at that statement. "Afraid? Of Boromir?"

"Yes, afraid," laughed Éowyn, punching him playfully in the side. "He was so grand, larger than life really.

Faramir closed his eyes as the vision of his brother burst on his mind. "That he was, and more, but why did you fear him?"

"I was afraid that he would steal my Théo away from me," she admitted softly. "I was just a little girl…"

"Who had already lost so much," he finished sadly. "I wish I had seen you as a little girl. I'm sure I would have loved you even then, as I love you now," he added softly, letting his lips find hers, offering her the comfort that words didn't hold.

Éowyn pulled back to look at his face, breathless from his kisses. "I do not know how I could get through this without you by my side. I'm so grateful to the king for allowing you to accompany me."

"Aragorn is a good king and an even better friend. I am proud to serve him." He smiled as Éowyn stifled a yawn. "Come, love, it is time to sleep. Tomorrow will be a difficult day. I'll see you to your room.

Éowyn stood tiredly before turning suddenly to take his hand in an almost panicked manner. "How do I do it , Faramir? How do I say goodbye to him forever?"

Faramir took her hands and pulled them to his chest. "You will do it the way you and I will face everything else in our lives. You will do it by standing by my side and allowing me to share the burden with you. Together we will face whatever Eru shall ever again ask of us."

O-o-O-o-O

The massive bier holding Théoden's casket was located on the throne side of the center fire pit in the great hall. The green and gold bunting that had been created for it was breathtaking, Éomer thought. Bergfinn and his son, Féalgar, who had so lovingly crafted the caisson, had obviously worked magic here as well and their devotion to Théoden was evident in even the smallest details. Bronze sunbursts adorned each corner wrapping around to hold the dark green material neatly against the bier.

Éomer and Gamling were sitting at solid wooden table off to the left side of the hall, a half eaten loaf of crusty bread and a round of sliced buttery cheese between them. A platter of apples and a pitcher of ale had also been set out to sustain the warriors through the long watch of the night. As they ate, Éomer queried Gamling about the arrangements for the morrow.

"Shortly after dawn the door wards will open the Meduseld," instructed Gamling. "The people will be allowed to file through to pay their respects to Théoden and then to kneel before the throne to pledge fealty to their new king.

"Where is Hálith," questioned the king suddenly, uncomfortable with the thought of sitting on the throne. "I'm ashamed that I have forgotten to inquire as to his whereabouts."

"You have had much on your mind, my lord. That is why you have advisors. I have taken the liberty of having your things moved to the King's apartment. Hálith has been moved from the barracks to your old room until other arrangements can be made."

Éomer nodded his approval. "He is too old to be quartered with the younger children in Théodred's room."

Gamling sighed as he sat back in his chair studying the anxious face of his young king. Éomer seemed deep in thought as he gazed up at one of the tapestries adorning the hall. He frowned deeply and shook his head as his eyes sought the bier once more. Unable to sit, he stood up and began pacing agitatedly back and forth in front of Gamling.

"What is it, sire? What vexes you so?" inquired the man, and he was even more puzzled by the stricken look his king turned upon him.

"I cannot do this, Gamling," admitted Éomer, shaking his head in defeat and frustration. "I just did not realize…did not have time to fully think this through before."

"You cannot do what, my lord?" asked the puzzled lieutenant.

"Be King of Rohan," answered Éomer honestly. "Here, in this Hall, I see it clearly. These tapestries tell us the stories of our Kings, great men all. They were larger than life, Gamling. How can I even think to stand in this hall of all places and compare myself?"

"Sire," said Gamling calmly, "you _are_ our King. We follow you proudly. Why do you doubt yourself now?"

"Just look around you, my friend," said Éomer sweeping his arm towards the tapestries. "It is all here, mocking me. Folca drove the orcs from our lands and died slaying the boar of Everholt. The tapestry of Folcwine is here. He recovered the lands that were taken from us by the Dunlendings." He pivoted, pointing to another wall. "Léon, the father Éorl, was the greatest horse tamer of all the Rohirrim. There is the tapestry of Brego, the king who built this very hall. And there," he said, pointing to yet another tapestry, "Helm, the Hammerhand, who wielded the strength of three men and led our people through the terrible winter siege."

Gamling watched calmly as Éomer moved from tapestry to tapestry reciting the history of each, which, taken as a whole, embodied the legendary history of the Mark. He had felt sure this moment would come at some point for his young king and hoped that he would have the necessary words to calm and reassure the man. "My lord, our kings have been men of renown and great deeds, but some of them have been flawed as well. It falls to each man to make the decisions he deems are best for these lands and our people. You have led our warriors boldly and bravely for many months now, proving yourself over and over again. Let the makers of the tapestries worry about who is worthy and who is not."

Éomer's shoulders slumped in momentary dejection. "It is not the facing of battle that I fear, my friend; it is the facing of peace. I have spent my life defending the Mark, fighting every enemy the dark one could throw at us. What do I know of peace? What if my lack of knowledge leads to disaster for our people?"

"Théoden King once stood dispirited and doubtful before me."

Éomer spun to stare at his friend. "Uncle Théoden?" he asked in disbelief.

Gamling could not help but smile at Éomer; he seemed of a sudden like the young man that Gamling had watched grow to manhood, and he had an unexpected memory of the earnest young man who had stowed away in his éored as just a lad. Gamling still remembered the ire of Marshal Erkenbrand when he had discovered Éomer tucked into his éored some hours out from Edoras.

"On more than one occasion," he assured the astonished king. "I will tell you now what I told him then. "Your people will follow you to whatever end."

Éomer turned to stare once more at the bier. "There are so many questions I wish I could ask him. I never expected to be king; that was Théodred's future."

"Éomer," soothed Gamling, walking over to take the man by the shoulders and forcing the king to look him in the face, "You will make the decisions as they come, one at a time. You will never be alone. Look around you, my lord. Look at the same tapestries that seemed to mock you earlier. They are your forefathers, and their spirits will be with you, as will Théoden's. He may walk the hallowed halls with your esteemed ancestors, but he will not leave you in need. This I believe. Do not allow doubt to cloud your mind now."

As Gamling finished speaking a warm pink light filtered through the high openings of the Hall, bathing the floor with the first enchanted rays of morn. It was as though the kings of old were infusing the room with their spirits and enveloping the young king with their reassurance.

"It is almost time, sire, and you have yet to sit on your throne." He held up his hand to ward off the inevitable denial from Éomer. "No, my lord, do not doubt it again. It is now your throne, as we are your people."

"And the last thing my people need to see is a hesitant king," finished Éomer. "Thank you, my friend." Éomer took a deep breath and ascended the dais. He had stood here after the battle of Helm's Deep; stood in the place that was rightfully Théodred's as he supported his uncle while the toast for the honored dead was intoned. He had been in this hall the day the beacons of Minis Tirith had been lit and Gondor had called for aid. He'd held his breath awaiting the King's decision, all the while knowing in his heart of hearts that Théoden would never betray the oath of Eorl. His heart had swelled with pride as the King called them to "muster the Rohirrim," and he'd sought his sister's eyes in reassurance, relieved that she, at least, would be spared the bitterness of battle.

He shook himself from his reverie and looked down at the throne where his uncle had led their people for Éomer's entire life. Taking a deep breath the turned and sat down on the Throne of Rohan.

A door off to the side opened and a quiet gasp signaled the arrival of Éowyn and Faramir. Éomer turned towards Éowyn and held out his hand.

Éowyn was chagrined to have gasped audibly though she had been taken aback to actually see Éomer on the throne. She shouldn't have been, she silently castigated herself, for she was well aware of the requirements of the day. She moved forward to take Éomer's hand and kneeled before him, placing her head on his knee.

"Éowyn," beseeched Éomer trying to raise his sister to her feet.

"Please, Éomer, I want to be the first to swear fealty to my king. I am so proud of you, brother."

Éomer glanced hesitantly at Faramir, knowing full well that once she became his wife her fealty would be to Aragorn. He was unsure how the Steward of Gondor would react to this action, and yet he was moved with love for his darling little sister and this act of devotion.

Faramir nodded his head in approval of his lady's action. "It is fitting that my future wife pledge herself to the King of Rohan, for her heart shall always be with him."

"Thank you, Lord Faramir," offered Éomer. "Please, I would like you to sit beside me as we greet the people."

Gamling smiled and nodded his approval to the king.

Éowyn beamed with pride that her brother would so honor her future husband by offering him the chief advisor's seat, though it would certainly be an expected accord for such a high ranking representative of the court of Gondor. She graced them both with a smile and moved to stand between the two most important men in her life.

"Gamling," directed Éomer, "notify the ward to open the doors."


	9. Chapter 9, The Honored Dead

To The King

Chapter Nine

The Honored Dead

"_What we have done for ourselves alone dies with us; what we have done for others and the world remains and is immortal." Albert Pike_

Gamling motioned for the doorward to open the great, carved doors to the Meduseld and allow the people to begin entering to take their part in this ancient ritual of the Riddermark, the passing of one king and the coming of another. It was the virtual continuation of their people. In a land and a people which faced such daily hardship in even the struggle to survive in what many would think a hostile environment, it was a sign of faith that their way of life would continue. The Horse Lords lived the same way they fought, with reckless abandon, never taking anything for granted. Life here was difficult, but it was a good life for this hardy people. Rohan was a land where possessions meant little and honor meant all.

The first ones to enter and pass by the bier were members of the King's Honor Guard. After standing at attention at the bier they filed by singularly before Éomer, kneeling to give him their oath. One by one they intoned the ancient vow of the Rohirrim. "By the grace that Bema grants me, by the mighty steed that bears me, by the strength of my arm, by the honor of my soul, and by the blood of my body, I pledge my oath to Éomer King, in peace and war, to be his protection, to be his guard, and to stand by his side until death calls."

Next came the serving women, most of them wives, sisters, or mothers of the King's own guard. First of these was Hildegard, all of about four foot three inches tall and with the demeanor of a banty rooster. Tanned and still firm for a woman of her years, she kept her long gray hair bound tightly behind her head. Hildegard had served in the kitchens of the Meduseld for many years. She was the undisputed head of the household, and very zealous for its running. For all the long months when Théoden had been under the spell of Grima, it was Hildegard that had been the only one who could talk back to the worm, and talk back she did – quite often. Hildegard was something of an institution around Edoras. Crusty and opinionated, she was the undisputed queen of the kitchen, and she had dearly loved Éomer and Éowyn since the two orphans had been brought to their new home by Théoden.

Following a respectful pause and more than a few tears of goodbye to Théoden, who was the only king most of them had ever known, the women too knelt before Éomer to swear fealty, though with bowed heads instead of spoken oaths as the guards had done.

Once all the household had filed through, the citizens began their journey, led by the Marshals Erkenbrand of the Westfold and Ceorl, the new Marshal of the Eastemnet. These two men bowed before the bier and stood for many minutes in silent contemplation, each making their goodbye in their own way. Then they moved as a pair to kneel before Éomer, Erkenbrand with a twinkle in his eye. "Éomer King, today is that day that I told you would come, and I am proud to serve you as I will be proud to ride beside you."

Éomer smiled as he remembered the day the Marshal had literally dragged him through the Meduseld in a rage because the boy had stowed away in his éored, causing them to lose almost an entire day by the time he had turned the troop around and brought him back. The two men shared a moment of reflection as they both remembered how Théoden had dealt with the boy.

Eomer rose and exchanged a warrior's grip with his Marshals. "I would like to meet with both of you tomorrow. There is much to decide."

The men nodded their assent. "We will be here, my lord," responded Erkenbrand for them both.

Éowyn excused herself to go to the kitchens to check on how the arrangements were coming for the meal being prepared for the people camping outside the city gates. Hildegard was in full swing with seemingly every pot in the kitchen bubbling away on the vast wood stove. One full wall of the immense kitchen was a countertop that was covered with extra loaves of bread the cooks had turned out to accompany the soup for this night's meal. Mounds of fresh vegetables had been gathered in preparation for peeling and chopping to go into the venison stew that would be served.

Hildegard spotted Éowyn as she entered the steamy room. "Now, my lamb, don't you go bothering yourself with the doings in here. You've got quite enough on your mind as it is, and I have things well under control in here."

Éowyn gave her a quick hug. "You have always had this room under control, Hildegard, as long as I've ever known you! And you usually managed to have some seed cakes around that I so love."

Hildegard laughed in delight. "And I have them for you now, not that you've taken much notice of food since you got home. You're too thin by half, my lamb, and don't think I haven't noticed you picking at your food and falling into bed exhausted. You'd best be eating more or you're going to be too skinny for that fine young man of yours. It takes meat on your bones to attract a lusty man like that to make babies with."

"Hildegard!"

"Now don't you go 'Hildegarding' me! I know you're not married yet, but you will be soon enough and I won't have Gondor thinking that Rohan can't feed its own Princess."

"Oh Hildegard, I do so love you!" smiled Éowyn, giving the woman a big hug. "Is there any chance you would come to Gondor with me?"

"And trust my kitchens to these ninnys?" she shrieked in mock horror. "Who would take care of that great oaf of a brother of yours? Who would make that apple cobbler he used to beg me for? No, I'd best stay right here. My old bones wouldn't know how to act in a city kitchen. Besides, I'd be awake all the time if I could not hear the winds barreling down from the White Mountains singing me to sleep at night."

"All right, all right," laughed Éowyn. "You stay here and take care of Éomer. I'm sure he'll need you more than I will, and it will give my heart rest to know that he has you."

"Now don't you go worrying yourself about the king. I'll see that he's taken care of, and those little lambs you've brought to live here too."

"Oh," gasped Éowyn, "I'd completely forgotten about the children! I should be getting them up and ready for break of fast."

"You just go back to the hall with that handsome man of yours and support your brother. He likely needs you today. Berga has gone to see to the children. We'll take care of them for you. Besides, as many children as we all have, what are a few more running in the halls, eh?"

Feminine giggles verified Hildegard's sentiments. Éowyn was teary-eyed, smiling her thanks to all these wonderful women who had been a part of her life for as long as she remembered. They were like treasured family. She would miss them all so much when she moved to Gondor.

"Go, go," shoed Hildegard, "get yourself back to the great hall and let us get back to work in here."

"I'm going," laughed Éowyn. "You will send for me if you need me, won't you?"

Hildegard just snorted and turned back to her work, winking at Éowyn as she did so.

O-o-O-o-O

Anor, rising in the east, was peeking through the window around the pelt that covered the opening, and crawling into the eyes of the sleeping boy. Hálith awoke with a start, for a moment not remembering where he was before his brain assured him he truly was awake and not in a dream. The morning light revealed a chamber much larger and grander than any in which he'd ever slept. It was, in fact, almost as large has half of the cottage in which he'd lived with his mother and father.

Whilst his mother was alive and working in the service of the king's household, he'd spent many happy hours playing in the back halls of the Meduseld. After her death, when he was just nine winters, he had not come as often. His father, the doorward for the king, did not feel that he could fulfill his duties and properly supervise his son. Háma would have been ashamed had his son disturbed the king, so Hálith had found himself alone more and more often.

He snuggled back down under the covers, content to awaken slowly, enjoying the luxury of being able to awaken in a room of his own – especially this room - after spending the past few months in the barracks with the unmarried warriors. He could still barely believe that he was here in this place, at the behest of his king, the man he had idolized since he was just a boy.

He doubted that Éomer even remembered the incident, but it would never leave his memory. He had been only 4 or 5 winters old and playing in a hallway across the Meduseld from the buttery when two older boys had pushed him down and then called him names when he cried. Even at that tender age he had known it would be the worst thing he could do to run to either of his parents, but his skinned knee hurt and he wanted the boys to go away.

Suddenly the king's nephew had been there. He stood quietly behind the boys long enough to hear their taunts and then had sprung into action, grabbing them both by the ears and positioning them against the wall. Kneeling down to pick up Hálith, he smiled at the tearful boy, standing him by his knee. Turning back to the older pair, Éomer had crossed his – to the young boys – massive arms across his chest and patiently explained that a true warrior would always protect the women folk, the weak, and the smaller ones among them, that it was dishonorable of them to have hurt a little one. Both of the older boys were swallowing hard and blinking back tears by the time the young Horse Lord finished speaking to them, and they immediately apologized to Hálith and promised Lord Éomer that they would not forget what he had told them. Éomer had then invited all three of them to the kitchen to eat some of Hildegard's seed cake with him, and the boys had been fast friends ever since. At least, Hálith was saddened to remember, until both of his friends had died in the defense of Helm's Deep.

Thinking of the seedcake elicited a growl from Hálith's stomach bringing him back to the present, and the boy decided that he would make his way to the barracks to see if there might be some oat cakes left from the soldier's morning repast. He was not completely sure what his position in the king's service was to be, only that Gamling had told him to sleep in this chamber instead of the barracks until the king had decided his future.

The boy groaned as he crawled from the warm bed and the chilly morning air hit his bare flesh. At least there were warm pelts on the floor to protect his feet from the icy stone of the floor. He poured water from a pitcher on the wash stand and plunged in his hands, shivering when the cold water hit his face. That chore done, he hastened to dress before he became any colder.

The sound of children chattering in the hallway outside his door piqued Hálith's curiosity and he cracked open the door to investigate. He saw one of the serving wenches – Berga, he remembered her name being – herding several small children down the hall. She spied the boy and motioned for him to join them.

"Come along, young master, you'll be needing something to fill that stomach of yours, I'll wager. We've enough porridge to feed an army, and if I'm not mistaken there's fresh churned butter and honeycomb to go in it as well."

Hálith's eyes lit up at the prospect! Hot porridge with honeycomb and butter sounded much better than the oat cakes he was used to in the barracks. He bent down to pick up the smallest child, a little girl with blonde hair the color of corn silk, who was lagging behind, and fell into step with the others. "Hello, my little friend. What is your name?"

The moppet smiled brightly at Hálith. "My name is Thela. Am I really your friend? I saw the king! What's your name? Are you a Horse Lord? My Da was a Horse Lord. He died fighting the bad ones. Did you fight the bad ones?"

"Whoa, slow down there, Thela," laughed Hálith. "It's much too early in the morning for talk of battles. You've fair got my head spinning with so many questions."

"She's a talker, that one," chuckled Brega, as she led them all to the kitchens. The children were greeted by a flurry of activity as servants were busily lugging the larger pots of porridge to the wains that would carry them down to the people camped outside the walls.

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn quietly rejoined Éomer and Faramir. She lightly rested her hand on Faramir's shoulder and smiled down at her husband-to-be as he glanced up and graced her with a look of such love that it fairly stole her breath away.

"Éowyn," he said softly, as the people continued swearing fealty to Éomer, "you come sit here for a while. I am in need of a walk before I become stiff from lack of movement."

The Steward took Éowyn's hand and kissed it lightly. Once his lady was seated, Faramir gave a bow to Éomer before leaving the Hall through the side doorway. He truly had no idea how much this simple act of respect for their king would win him the hearts of the people of Rohan. It was considered a great tribute that a Lord of Gondor would so honor their King.

The people were proud that their beautiful Éowyn had won the heart of the Steward of Gondor and pleased to see that he respected her people and the traditions of Rohan. What Faramir considered a simple act of courtesy for his brother-to-be would be held up and discussed about campfires throughout the countryside as proof that he was a worthy man and fit to marry their Shield Maiden. To have won the respect and affection of the people of Rohan was no small matter, for this people did not generally trust strangers.

Nomadic and pastoral by nature, the people of Rohan were generous and loving, but somewhat distrustful of new ways or people. Years of strife and war had made them somewhat insular, tending to trust only their own kind and fear the unknown. Those who had contact with Gondor, the warriors and traders who provided horses for goods, were often met with disdain and contempt by the more cosmopolitan of Gondor, especially those of Minis Tirith, a fact which did not fail to make its way back to the people of Rohan.

Faramir had made his way outside through the armory, when the clamor of activity coming from the kitchens drew his attention. He had to dodge two men emerging through the doorway with a tremendous smoking pot of porridge suspended from a pole carried across their shoulders. Peeking into the door from which they'd come he was delighted to see the children all sitting at one of the tables.

"Farmeer!" squealed Thela in delight when she spied the Steward. "Come see me."

"Hello, Thela," laughed Faramir. "Hello children," he nodded to the rest. "What are you eating this fine morning?"

"We're eating porridge with honey and butter," announced Bergoff. At eight years old, he was the oldest of the children Éowyn had brought to the Meduseld and the natural leader of the small group.

"That sounds very good, Bergoff. I'm quite fond of honey myself." Faramir moved around the table speaking to the children, enjoying the break from the formalities taking place in the great hall. "Hello, Hálith, isn't it?" he asked, bowing slightly to the boy who had Thela sitting on his lap. "I am Faramir. I was on the journey from Gondor with you."

Hálith quickly sat Thela down onto the bench beside him stood up and to give a proper bow to the Steward. "Yes, my lord. My name is Hálith." The youngster was momentarily unsure of what to do. Meeting the Steward of Gondor was not something with which he was at ease.

"Please, Hálith, sit, finish your meal," smiled Faramir. "I simply came in to say hello to the children. I hope that we will get to know each other better while I am here."

"I should be honored, my lord," answered Hálith, wide-eyed to actually be carrying on a conversation with so great a man

"Faramir, Faramir" called Márta and Meela, seven and eight year old sisters with ginger colored hair and bright green eyes. They were precious little girls whose mother had died in childbirth, never knowing that her husband had been killed on the same day in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. The infant son had died with his mother. Faramir's heart had melted the moment he saw them.

Faramir walked around the table and knelt down between the pair, giving them each a kiss on the cheek. "And how are my darlings this morning?" he asked, looking from one to the other.

"Márta says the magic is gone," pouted Meela, holding up her chin to point to where the yellow flower "magic" had been.

Faramir caressed her cheek and smiled his most winning smile at the little girl. "When you go outside today, look for one of the flowers and we shall check tonight to see if the magic has returned. Is that acceptable?"

"Oh yes," breathed the excited child. "I shall find flowers for Márta and Thela too."

"Faramir," interrupted four year old Gandafin, "will you tell us another story tonight? Will you tell us about the Rangers of Ith, Ith, Ith…"

"Ithilien?" supplied the Steward.

"Yes, that's it," smiled the boy. "I want to be one of your Rangers when I grow up."

"Then you had best eat all of that porridge, for you will need strong arms with which to pull your bow," instructed Faramir, noticing that the too thin boy was not eating very much.

From across the kitchen Hildegard watched the Steward chatting and laughing with the children. Relaxed and completely at ease with the little ones, he seemed much too young and vulnerable to be in such a position of power. Yes, he would make her Éowyn a fine husband, and would be a good father, but he was a bit too thin himself. Picking up one of the wooden bowls, Hildegard filled it with some of the fresh porridge. She scooped on a generous amount of butter and honey before marching across the room to plop the bowl down in front of Faramir.

"You best sit and eat with them, my lord, or they'll never get finished. Besides, you're a mite on the thin side. You'll be needing stamina to make babies with my Éowyn."

Faramir's eyes grew wide and he flushed scarlet, but Hildegard just chuckled and went back to her work smiling. Yes, he would do; he would do.

TBC

A/N: We'll get back to Éomer in the next chapter!

Thank you for all your wonderful reviews. They are each cherished. A special thanks for DJSparkles, my friend, beta, and co-conspirator.


	10. Chapter 10, The Need of the Many

To The King

Chapter Ten

The Needs of the Many

"_t is not enough to be good. You must be good for something. You must contribute good to the world. The world must be a better place for your presence. And the good that is in you must be spread to others. In this world so filled with problems, so constantly threatened by dark and evil challenges, you can and must rise above mediocrity, above indifference. You can become involved and speak with a strong voice for that which is right." Gordon B. Hinckley_

"Farmeer?" asked Thela, looking adoringly at the fair haired man sitting beside her. "Why is your face red?"

Faramir started and looked down at the little girl, flustered and still embarrassed by Hildegard's comment. Clearly the plain spoken and earthy humor of his intended's people was something to which the genteel Gondorian would need to become accustomed. "Am I?" he finally managed to stammer, somewhat chagrined to be stuttering like a schoolboy caught out of turn. He hoped the clattering of pans and the chatter of the ladies would cover the conversation.

"Um humm," nodded the girl, her blonde curls bobbing up and down with the enthusiasm of her reply. "Are you going to make a baby with Éowyn?"

Faramir actually choked on the mouthful of porridge he had just taken. Oh, and it was so good with the melting butter and sweet, rich honey!

"Thela!" chastised Hálith gently, as he pounded the Steward of Gondor on the back, "you must not ask that question of Lord Faramir." 'Could this day get any more unbelievable?' wondered the boy. 'First he was sleeping in the king's old room and now he was eating break of fast with the Steward of Gondor!'

"Why not?" demanded the three year old, frowning back and forth between Hálith and her Farmeer, her gaze finally settling on the latter. "Don't you want one?"

"Well yes," stammered Faramir, clearing his throat of the last vestiges of the choked upon porridge and wiping the tears from his eyes, "of course I do." 'Yes,' he noticed, 'there was a definite drop in the level of noise coming from the kitchen behind him.'

"Then you _are_ going to make a baby with Éowyn!" cheered the exited little girl. "Can I watch?"

Feminine giggles from the kitchen staff thankfully covered the strangled gasp from Faramir. 'Oh, but they were enjoying this too much,' he realized. He would have to find a way to turn the tables on this lot, he decided, thankful, at least to have provided a bit of levity to their long day. Faramir knew these faithful women had been working in the kitchens since many hours before dawn and if he could help to lighten their load, then he was gratified his embarrassment could have some positive result.

"Farmeer," insisted the undistracted child, "you didn't answer my question."

"Which question was that, Thela," answered the Steward smoothly, as he wiped his mouth with a soft cloth provided for that purpose. Truthfully, he was still attempting to regain his breath after nearly choking to death on this delicious porridge.

"Why-is-your-face-red?" responded Thela very slowly, as though he was having trouble understanding her language.

"Oh, that question," answered Faramir with a twinkle in his eye. "My face is red because of this bowl of porridge that was placed in front of me. I don't believe I've ever had anything quite like it." Faramir winked at Hálith as _all_ sound ceased behind him and he knew he had the complete attention of the ladies of the kitchen.

"Don't they have porridge in Gondor?" asked Thela.

Even the children at the table had stopped eating and were staring at him. Aware of the sudden tension in the room, Márta and Meela looked close to tears, Thela was confused, and the boys were just wide eyed, especially since they could see Hildegard and other women ladies frowning at Faramir's back.

"Why yes, Thela, we do," replied the Steward smoothly. "It's just not, not…"

"Not what?" demanded Hildegard.

Faramir spun around on the bench to face the wrathful Hildegard and antagonized women, anxious to savor the moment completely. "Why, it's not nearly as delicious as this!" smiled the Steward as he watched Hildegard's wrath deflate like one of Gandalf's malfunctioning fire works.

At his wide-eyed, innocent look the fiery cook shook her wooden spoon at him sending bits of porridge flying in every direction, and finally burst into loud guffaws. "That was good, you rascal, that was good."

The nervous tension in the room evaporated as the group joined the laughter. Thela beamed, sure that her question had caused everyone to be so happy.

"What is this?' ask Éowyn entering the room to see everyone laughing happily.

"Éowyn!" exclaimed Thela, "Faramir is going to make..umph.." Thankfully Hálith clapped his hand over her mouth before she could complete the sentence, setting off another round of hilarity in the room.

"Come, love," Faramir exclaimed as he slid smoothly to his feet and took her elbow. "Goodbye children," the Steward nodded to the little ones at the table. "Ladies, Hildegard," he bowed to the women, setting off a round of soft sighs and thudding hearts.

"What was that all about?" laughed Éowyn as he escorted her down the hallway.

"Oh, just my attempt to lighten their hearts," quipped Faramir. He sobered and stopped Éowyn, looking into her tired eyes. "How fare you?"

Éowyn smiled at his concern. "I am well, Faramir. I knew this day would be difficult, but with you and Éomer at my side, it is bearable. I was concerned when you were gone for so long."

Faramir kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry, Éowyn; I did not mean to stay away. I saw the children and went in to say hello to them, and Hildegard gave me porridge with butter and honey. I did not realize how hungry I was until I smelled it."

Éowyn laughed, "I should have warned you that no one goes into Hildegard's kitchen without being fed."

Faramir glanced quickly in both directions to assure their privacy and took Éowyn's face in his hands, kissing her tempting lips. "Hildegard was right, you know. We're going to make lots of babies."

It was Éowyn's turn to blush.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer had been receiving the vows of fealty from his people for hours and finally the lines were beginning to thin as dusk added a gathering gloom to the vaulted room. A fire had been lit in the fire pit sending shadows dancing across the ornately patterned floor. The king nodded as Gamling stepped up to announce that Erkenbrand and Ceorl were awaiting his pleasure in the ante room off the King's apartment. "Thank you, Gamling; I will attend them as soon as I have received the last of the people here. Please see that they are made comfortable."

"Yes, sire"

As Gamling walked away, a commotion beside the bier caught Éomer's attention. An ancient woman, dressed all in black, had fallen to her knees and was rocking back and forth, keening loudly. Concerned, Éomer went to the woman's side and dropped to a knee. "Come, Mother, let me help you," he offered kindly, taking her hand and slipping his arm around her for support.

The old woman turned watery eyes to the king and place her weathered palm against his cheek. "He was a good king, and a good friend to my husband and me. It near broke his heart when he realized what he'd done to you, Éomer."

The pieces fell into place for Éomer and he recognized the woman he'd known most of his life. He was staggered at the changes that had taken place in the woman in the months since he'd last seen her. She was unkempt and shockingly thin with almost translucent skin. The veins of the hand he held were clearly outlined underneath papery skin. "Come, Elena, let me help you to sit down and rest. You need eat something and recover your strength."

The woman attempted to rise, but even with Éomer supporting her, she collapsed. One of the guards stepped forward to assist the king, but Éomer waved him off, preferring to carry her himself. He swept the fragile woman into his arms and started towards the guest rooms.

Gamling, who had heard the disturbance and started back towards Éomer, met him half way to the side entrance. "My lord, is she ill?"

"I fear so, Gamling. Is your wife in the Meduseld today?"

"Yes, sire, Berga is helping Hildegard in the kitchens."

"Please ask her to come to the guest room nearest my apartment and to bring some tea or broth. Also, send someone for her husband."

"Sire, he was killed at Helm's Deep."

"Oh, I didn't know." Éomer looked down at the stricken woman, remembering that she was childless and therefore now alone in the world. "Thank you Gamling." Éomer hurried to the guest room and was met in the hallway by Faramir and Éowyn.

"Elena!" exclaimed Éowyn. "Éomer, what happened?"

"I thought at first she was just overcome by grief, but I fear she may be ill."

Éowyn hurried ahead of Éomer to open the door of the darkened room. The walls were bare stone, but warm fur pelts covered the window and the floor near to the large bed. A wooden table stood at bedside, and there were pegs on the wall to hold cloaks or clothing. Two chairs sat against the wall near the foot of the bed. Éowyn turned down the bed covers so that he could lay the woman down. She pulled off Elena's slippers and tucked the soft blankets up to her chin, for the woman had begun to shiver. "Oh, you sweet thing," Éowyn crooned as she sat on the bed holding Elena's hand and patting it.

Éomer used the tinder box to light the oil lamp and on the table and the soft glow chased the shadows to the corners of the room. He leaned over the stricken woman to smooth back the hair from her forehead letting his hand pause to caress her feverish skin.

"She looks like she's starving," observed the ever analytical Faramir.

Éomer jerked up as though he'd been struck and turned stricken eyes to the Steward, shaking his head sadly. "Old people, orphans, babies…how do I feed my people this winter?"

Faramir had not really even meant to speak the words aloud and was now grieved to see that he had so upset the king. He had truly not meant the observation as an indictment. He reached out to grasp the man's shoulder. "Éomer, Rohan mustered to Gondor's aid, and as Steward I swear to you that Gondor will not turn from you in your hour of need."

"Faramir," sighed the king tiredly, "Rohan does not beg. With the devastation of the war, I know that Gondor's food coffers will be spare this winter as well."

"Be that as it may," Faramir insisted. "What we have to offer, we will offer. None shall starve. And I will hear no more of begging. The hand of a friend holds no shame."

Berga bustled into the room followed closely by a concerned Gamling. "Here we go, my lord, some fresh broth and tea for the Mother." The kindly and efficient Berga set the tray down onto the table beside the bed and quickly assessed the situation. "Out with you men, now, Éowyn and I will see to her."

The men began to back reluctantly towards the door. "Gamling," Berga, called. "Ask one of the caretakers to fetch some hot water for us. The poor dear is needing a bath and something fresh to wear for sleep."

"I'll bring her one of my sleeping gowns," offered Éowyn, rising to follow the retreating men out the door. "It's all right now; leave things to those of us who are accustomed to nursing. She will be well."

When the three still stood there looking somewhat uncomfortable, Éowyn shooed them off with little motions of her hands. "It's all right; I promise you. Berga and I will take care of her."

Faramir smiled at the take charge spirit of Éowyn. Gamling would do anything for the Shield Maiden of Rohan, and Éomer stared deep into her eyes before giving a single nod of his head. "Let me know if you need anything, Éowyn. Anything," he stressed.

"Yes, yes, of course," she agreed. "Now off with you and let me get the sleep gown."

"Sire, the Marshals await you," reminded Gamling.

Faramir tactfully excused himself to go check on the children, allowing Éomer to attend the meeting without seeming to neglect his guest.

"All right," sighed Éomer, "let's get this over with."

As Éomer entered the room the Marshals came to their feet and bowed. Both were curious as to why Éomer had requested this meeting now rather than after the formalities of the funeral when all the Marshals would be gathering to deliver their reports on the state of the Mark.

Éomer started without preamble. "I will come straight to the point. Marshal Erkenbrand, immediately following the king's funeral, I want you, accompanied by Gamling, to ride to Snowbourne to accompany Garoth back here. Take a number of your éored with you, but leave enough so that the Westfold will be protected. Marshal Ceorl, you will need to oversee both the Westfold and the Eastemnet while Marshal Erkenbrand is away."

Both Marshals were momentarily dumbfounded. Gamling had heard the king's feelings regarding the situation on the journey back from Gondor, so he was not surprised. He had thought at the time that the flames of Éomer's ire might be banked by the time they reached Edoras, but that was obviously not the case.

"My lord," began Erkenbrand cautiously, "what reason should we give Garoth for this, er, request?"

If anything Éomer's frown grew fiercer. "Reason? He is coming here to give me a _reason_ why the riders of Snowbourne forsook their king at Dunharrow. I will know why he refused his king's call and withheld his éored."

"May I ask, sire," questioned Ceorl, "what your intentions are towards Garoth?"

Éomer spun to look at the Marshal and fixed him with a glare that caused the man to flinch. "My intentions, _Marshal,_ should I not like his answer, are to sever his head myself. Hear me and hear me well. I will not abide disobedience from the éoreds. We are facing the threat of starvation, the Dunlendings are still on our borders, and the men of the south still exist. Additionally there were hundreds of orcs that escaped the destruction of Mordor and may yet threaten our people or our herds. I cannot, and I _will_ _not_ tolerate a Marshal of the Mark withholding he éored when the call goes forth."

Marshal Erkenbrand cleared this throat. "Well, that certainly explains our mission. It will be as you say, my Lord." He dipped his head in salute. "We will leave immediately following King Théoden's funeral tomorrow."

Ceorl followed suit. "My Lord, I will distribute the éoreds so that both the Eastemnet and the Westfold are protected. No harm will come to our people while I draw breath."

Éomer grasped his arm in the warrior's salute. "Thank you, my friend. I am counting on you for the welfare of the Mark. There are still dark days ahead that may call for harsh measures."

"You have our complete confidence, my King," vowed the Marshal. "Forgive me for questioning you earlier."

"No, Marshal, do not apologize. I need to hear your questions and your doubts. I trust you to give me your thoughts and your suggestions. The more facts that I have the better my decisions can be."

Ceorl bowed, "Sire, I take my leave now to begin preparations."

As the Marshals left the room Éomer turned to Gamling. "You think me too harsh?"

TBC

A/N: Éomer addressed Elena as "Mother" as a term of respect for the elderly woman.

In most cases, a healer would only be summoned for injuries or severe illness. All other care giving and nursing was done by the women.

Thank you, **DJSparkles**, for your support, friendship, and beta work on this story. You make me laugh when I'm sad, you encourage me when I'm down, and you kick me in the pants when I'm not writing!

My most sincere thanks go to you, my reviewers, for without you I would be most bereft! **Maddy**: you're reviews never fail to lift me up and encourage me. They're the pat on the back I need when I feel that I cannot think of where to go next with this story! **Quickbeam**: Your work has always been an inspiration for me because of its lyrical and poetic quality. You truly have a gift with words that nudges and prods me to stretch my wings in that direction. Thank you for pointing out the phrases that particularly touch you, for that is a great help to me. PS: You mentioned somewhere that I might reach you but I was unfamiliar with the acronym you used. **Mearas**: You are always faithful to review my stories, and for that I'm truly grateful. I'm glad that you like Hálith's development, and I shall certainly be expanding his role in the story. It's always good to know that supporting players are appreciated and created in such a way as to give the reader a vested interest in them. **Katzilla**: What can I say? I appreciate you taking the time from your wonderful story to stop by and leave me a review. Your work sets the gold standard for Éomer! **Lindahoyland**: Last, but certainly not least, thank you! You are reading my work and reviewing right in the middle of an extensive work of your own and that tells me much. The depth of research that you put into your work inspires me to do the same.


	11. Chapter 11, Bergfinn

**To the King**

**Chapter Eleven**

**Bergfinn**

"_Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."_

_Alfred Lord Tennyson, Ulysses_

_My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her characters Bergfinn, Féalgar, and Battleaxe, who will appear throughout this story._

For thirty-nine years the people of Rohan, noble Horse-lords of the plains, had not seen the likes of such pomp and splendor as was prepared for this day, for it had been that many years since last a proud King of Rohan had been laid to rest. Fresh still was the mound which held the beloved remains of Théodred, son of Théoden, and now a mirror hillock was hollowed and prepared to receive the body of Théoden, son of Thengel. Thus ended the second line of kings and began the third with the reign of Éomer, son of Éomund.

Bergfinn was one who remembered the death and burial of Thengel, son of Fengel. He had been the smithy at Edoras for over forty five years. Born the same year as Théoden, he had apprenticed to his father, taking over the family business in III 2974, when he was just 26 years old. With a young wife, and now his mother and four younger sisters to support, Bergfinn was kept too busy to spend much time mourning his father.

As a child, Bergfinn had played with Théoden, and the two had become fast friends. As young men, however, they were separated by station and responsibility…Bergfinn to the smithy, and Théoden - as heir to the throne - to an éored. Eight short years after the death of Bergfinn's own father, Thengel had been felled in battle, cut down by Orcs intent upon stealing a merth stallion kept for breeding horses for the line of Kings, and Théoden had become the Lord of the Mark.

After returning to Edoras with his young son, for his wife Elfhild had died in childbirth, Théoden had renewed his easy friendship with Bergfinn. Oh, not that Bergfinn would receive invitations to dine at the Meduseld, for that would not have been proper, but Théoden had often found reason to make his way down to the old barn where Bergfinn worked. One errand or the other would draw the king down the hill to sit in companionable silence and watch the man work while Théodred played with Bergfinn's own son, Féalgar. Théoden was a lonely man, but still too grief and guilt stricken over the loss of his beloved wife to even consider marriage again, even to gain the proverbial "spare" to the throne (Théodred being the heir). Théoden was content knowing that his sister Théodwyn had a son and, should the unthinkable happen, the line of Eorl could continue on the throne through Éomer.

Now seventy and one, and ready to hand over his smithy to his son Féalgar, Bergfinn looked upon this day as his last of "active duty" for Théoden King, for he had lovingly crafted not only the caisson and bier which had born his friend and Lord's body home, but he had worked long hours with the armorer to create the armor in which his King would be laid to rest. Bergfinn sighed as he stood in the doorway of his barn and watched the sun rise over the mountains, entranced as the scarlet fingers warmed the peaks and painted the valley with the inviting hues of a golden morning. He truly loved this place with the smell of leather and hay, of horses and the fire of the forge. It was hard work, but it was rewarding work. Bergfinn sighed, and with one last glance at the dawn, returned to anvil.

Somehow he was not surprised, this morning of all mornings, to see Éomer come walking through his door as he had done so often as a boy. After being brought to Edoras with Éowyn, Éomer had spent many happy hours here learning all there was to learn. His childhood cut short by the deaths of his parents, Éomer had no interest in playing with the other children. His only interest was in learning all that it would take to be a horse lord so that he could kill orcs.

Bergfinn smiled as he remembered the earnest lad working so diligently on the sword he made for Éowyn's eighth birth day and how his serious young face had been creased by a frown of concentration as he struggled to make it just right. The man always treasured the times that he could bring a smile to that young face, for it was not an easy thing to do. It grieved him that the boy could not run and play in carefree joy like he and Théoden had been able to do, but such were the times in which they lived. He prayed to Béma that Éomer's children, and his own grandchildren would live in such times. Picking up his heaviest mallet, he began to hammer at the metal piece on which he'd been working, leaning over the anvil as he labored.

"Well come, my King. I pray this day finds you well."

"Well met and thank you, Bergfinn, though I had hoped I would just be Éomer here, of all places." Éomer stepped over to the rack of tools, fingering the familiar array. "Vise, rounding hammers, hot fitting tongs, rasp, hoof knives – left and right sided, nail nippers…everything is laid out just as I remember it," mused the king. He turned back to face his old mentor, leaning casually against the shelving and crossing his ankles as he watched the older man work. To his eyes, and with the exception of a shock of white hair, Bergfinn still looked as he had for all the years Éomer had known him, even down to the sleeves rolled back revealing massively muscular arms and the worn leather apron that protected the man from the fires of the forge and the sparks and gledes flying from the hammered metal.

Bergfinn laughed at the scrutiny as he worked over the metal piece, carefully eyeballing the shape. Laying down the hammer, he stepped away from the anvil and crossed over to the king. Placing a large, meaty hand on the man's shoulder, he turned serious and met the eyes of the one who now led his people. Bergfinn always had a way of looking into a man's eye that seemed to pierce right to the soul. Éomer welcomed the inspection unflinchingly, as only the clear of conscience can do. A slow smile graced the weathered face of the blacksmith and he nodded his head approvingly, to which Éomer raised both eyebrows in question.

"Just making sure you were still the man I thought you to be, that's all," explained the smithy. "War can change a man, Éomer. I've seen it too many times. Sometimes it makes cowards out of the brave and sometimes it warps the kindest soul into the sort of man that takes pleasure in inflicting pain." He paused, apparently thinking back on the different men he'd known in his lifetime and then shook off the memory, chasing away the gloomy seedling thoughts before they could take root and ruin what looked to be a beautiful day like weeds choking the life from the tender blooms of a spring garden. "I am glad to see that you are not so scarred as to have lost the gentle heart I have known these long years."

Éomer snorted, "More than a few enemies of mine would argue the gentleness of my heart."

"Of that I have no doubt, my young friend, but it is not battle of which I speak. I know of your brave deeds, your valor. Those are strengths you wield for the protection of your family, your warriors and your country." The old man placed his hand over the king's heart. "Here," he said softly patting Éomer's chest to emphasize the word, "here is where your true strength lies, in the loyalty, the love, and the honor of your being. Do not ever lose that, Éomer, and you will be a great king."

Éomer was momentarily rendered speechless by the sincerity of Bergfinn's declaration, causing the old man to chuckle fondly, stepping back to his anvil to further inspect the glowing metal before casting it into a bucket of water. Steam sizzled up as the metal cooled.

"You never were much of a talker, so don't fret about starting now. I'm still just old Bergfinn."

"You will never be "just old Bergfinn" to me," objected Éomer. "I spent many happy hours here in this barn watching you work and learning from you." He paused looking around the familiar room. "I always felt at peace here."

"Peace?" teased Bergfinn, smiling when he caught the king's eye. "You worked as hard as any apprentice I've ever had, and frankly you were as talented as any. Many's the eve I've watched you trudge home bone weary. I half expected to find Théoden on my doorstep the next morning berating me for child abuse."

Éomer savored the memory. He had loved working here until ready to drop, for it was easy to stay his grief while laboring with the blacksmith. Too young to ride with the éoreds, here he could exercise muscles while forcing his mind to concentrate on all the new skills he was being taught. Had he not been born of the royal line, Éomer could easily have spent his life doing this very thing.

As though reading his thoughts, Bergfinn walked over and clasped his king around the shoulder. "Come, let us have some tea and enjoy the sunrise as we used to do. Féalgar and Hammok will be here soon and I would like to share this time with you before they arrive."

"Hammok?" inquired Éomer. "I am not familiar with him. Is he another apprentice?"

Bergfinn busied himself making the tea while Éomer settled on a nearby bale of hay. One of the luxuries of a forge, besides the added warmth during the bitter winters, was the ease and availability of hot water for tea. "Alas I have trained my last apprentice. Féalgar has taken over most all my responsibilities as blacksmith now. Hammok has become the farrier. He is quite good with the horses and with more and more éoreds in Edoras the past few years we've had great need for a full time man to work with them."

Éomer frowned slightly at the news. "It shall seem strange to me not to have a man of your household giving attention to the shoes of my Firefoot. I'm not so sure he or I shall be comfortable with another tending him."

Bergfinn laughed out loud, pleased and proud to so have his king's confidence. "Then rest easy, my friend, for Hammok is my sister son, so the blood of my house runs in his veins. Beyond that, he is exceptionally good at what he does. Almost as good a farrier as you would have made."

Éomer accepted the steaming metal mug from Bergfinn, wrapping his large hands around the cup to welcome the warmth. Coldness hung in the air, a portent of the coming winter and Éomer frowned as he contemplated what that would mean for his country. There was still much to be done if he were to avoid starvation for his people and the herds they depended upon for so much. Once the spring came they could begin mating the mares for next year and tilling the lands. By summer there would be foals from last year's yield, ranks to be broken and sold, and crops to harvest. But first came the winter.

Bergfinn shivered as he sat down beside Éomer. "Burrrr, I thought the autumn mildness would last longer this year. The chill seems to have crept upon us unawares." He sat his mug aside and reached up to brush away a cob's web just over the king's head.

Éomer glanced up and unconsciously shivered, causing Bergfinn to guffaw and slap his knee. "You can ride the most powerful stallion in the herd at full gallop using no hands and yet you still shiver at the thought of simple cob."

The king smiled sheepishly at the old man. "I never could abide those creatures. They're just creepy."

"Rest easy, mighty king," grinned Bergfinn, "your secret is safe with me!"

Éomer frowned as he looked back out at the rapid brightening of the sky. "It is an ill wind that blows this day, for I would far rather feel the sweet caress of the summer's breeze to this harbinger of winter. Many will begin to journey home after the funeral. Is it not enough that their hearts are laden with grief? Must they endure more hardship?"

"Are you asking me or Béma?"

"Neither, I suppose" grumbled Éomer gloomily as he swirled the tea around the mug, idly watching the leave**s** as they resettled to the bottom.

"Lay the dust of these worries for now then," counseled Bergfinn. "Your uncle's funeral is today and that is enough burden for you to carry without the added weight of all Rohan."

"You and he were the only two people in the world to which I could always talk," confessed Éomer. "His loss is grievous."

"Do you remember when you worked here making the sword for Éowyn's birth day celebration?

"Yes, of course. I was thinking of it earlier in fact."

"You worked many long hours on that sword." Bergfinn paused as he pulled an worn pipe from a pocket affixed to the inside of his leather apron. He walked over to the forge and used a smaller set of tongs to retrieve a cinder with which he lit the weed. The man made several quick puffs as he walked back over to sit down beside his ever impatient pupil. He could not help but smile as he thought back on all the times he'd forced Éomer to sit patiently as he waited for Bergfinn to continue a story. The boy never realized that patience was part of the lesson the lore master wished to impart. Settling himself comfortably he continued. "Now where was I? Oh, yes, the sword… It took many days and many steps to forge that sword. You worked longer and harder on that one piece than I ever remember you working on anything else. Why was that?"

Falling easily into the old pattern, Éomer took his time to consider the question before answering. "The sword was to be a very special present. Not only did it need to be beautiful so that it would please Éowyn, but it needed to be sound and well built to withstand the many hours of practice. It was also required to be small enough to fit her young hand and light enough of weight so that her arm might lift it."

"Took a bit of figuring on your part too, did it not?" prodded the man.

"Yes," recalled Éomer, "it did." The king leaned forward placing his elbows on top of his knees and cradling his chin on his grasped fists, something he often did when deep in thought. "I ruined three before I got the heft and strength just right."

"I remember. You spent one whole week on the first one. Why didn't you quit once you had failed?"

Éomer sat up and gave Bergfinn an incredulous look. "It was too important. I could not stop until I had Éowyn's gift. Besides, I learned much from that first sword. I discovered how thin I could hammer the metal and determined just how hot it could be made before it became too malleable."

Bergfinn keep puffing his pipe for a moment and then smiled at his pupil. "Éomer, it is no different now. We learn by doing. You will make some mistakes, but so long as you keep learning and keep trying, that is all any of us would ask of you."

Éomer's eyes widened as he realized what his old friend had accomplished. "You remind me of Uncle. The two of you always taught me by asking questions."

Bergfinn laughed and puffed at the same time, causing himself to be thrown into a coughing fit.

Éomer slapped the old man on the back as Bergfinn got his breath back and wiped the tears from his face, and the two of them settled down in quiet contemplation of the morning light. Bergfinn wisely kept to himself that the cob was busily spinning herself a new web just above the king's head. If need be, he'd make sure Éomer didn't get into it when he rose. After all, the little cob was just doing what nature ordained her to do.

After a bit, Bergfinn yawned and stretched. "It was my father that taught us both to do that, for that is how he schooled us."

"You both learned the lesson well; I can avow that," chuckled Éomer. "I can only hope that I'll be half as wise as the two of you when my own time comes."

"You will, my king. You are already far wiser than you know."

With dawn past and morning in full bloom the city was beginning to come to life. Chickens clucked as morning grains were scattered before them by housewives across the city. Cows were milked and horses were savoring their morning hay. From the top of the hill smoke could be seen pouring from the chimney of the Meduseld kitchens, reminding Éomer of his duties. Soon people would begin pouring into the city to find themselves places to observe the funeral, whether it be along the procession route or on the hillside near the burial mounds of the kings.

"Aye, well, the day is here and I must make ready." Éomer stood up, deftly avoiding the cob's new web, which he'd caught sight of earlier, and turned an amused glance down to his teacher. "A warrior is trained to take note of his surroundings."

Bergfinn just chuckled and nodded his head sagely. "That he is, my king; that he is."


	12. Chapter 12, The Funeral

**To the King**

**Chapter Twelve**

**The Funeral**

_I'm not going to die,  
I'm going home  
Like a shooting star.--Sojourner Truth_

_To live in the hearts we leave behind is not to die.--Thomas Campbell_

As Éomer was making his way up the hill from Bergfinn's barn, Éowyn was attempting to cope with her hair. Throwing down her brush in annoyance, she burst into tears. Immediately a tap on the door sounded, embarrassing her that her frustration had been overheard. Composing her face, she rose from her position on the bed, picked up the broken brush and walked over and opened the door.

Berga had been walking down the hallway after taking some freshly laundered clothes to the children's rooms when she heard the faint crash inside the adjoining chamber. She smiled as Éowyn opened the door, for she wore a stunning royal blue and silver brocade dressing gown.

Éowyn blushed slightly as she saw the reaction of the woman to her gown. "It is rather grand isn't it?" admitted the embarrassed woman. "It was a gift from Queen Arwen," she said by way of explanation, not even sure why she was so defensive all of a sudden.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," admitted Berga. Then she remembered why she had knocked in the first place. "Are you all right, mistress?"

"Yes, but I'm not so sure about my brush." Éowyn grimaced as she held up the broken handle.

"Here now," offered Berga, "let me help you. I've always admired your hair." She skillfully maneuvered Éowyn over to the edge of the bed, keeping up a running commentary as she went. "It must be nigh on to impossible to weave your hair up in such a difficult braid around the crown all by yourself. Sit here on the side of the bed and let me help." Berga sat down behind Éowyn and began cording her fingers through the long tresses. When she had them tangle free, she began braiding them in four sections, which she expertly wound through and around the copper and brass crown worn by the princess for formal occasions.

"How do you do that so quickly and easily" exclaimed Éowyn as she felt herself relaxing to the rhythmic magic of Berga's fingers working though her hair.

"I had three little sisters," laughed the woman. "Our mother was kept busy tending the cooking and animals, not to mention my four younger brothers, so I always cared for the little ones. I had great fun playing with their hair and creating new braid styles. I had hoped to one day use those same styles on my own little girl, but Béma has not blessed Gamling and me with a child." She sighed and fell silent for a few moments as she worked on Éowyn's hair.

Éowyn closed her eyes as she thought about what Berga had said. She had been so pleased when Faramir had made the comment he did about making lots of babies and never even considered that it might not come to pass. She thought about how devastated she would feel if she could not bear children with Faramir.

Berga could feel the sudden tension in Éowyn's shoulders and realized the cause. "Now don't you go fretting about me, mistress. Gamling has made me quite happy and our lives are full. Besides, there are little ones aplenty for all of us running around the Meduseld right now aren't there?"

Éowyn laughed in spite of herself. "Yes, and there may well be more soon. Éomer is going to have the entire Mark searched for orphans. Until good homes can be found for them all, they'll be staying here."

Berga smiled at the thought. It had been hectic these last few days, but having the children in the Meduseld had helped to dispel the grief of the war and its losses and spoke of a brighter future for them all. "It's a good thing your brother is doing. He's going to make a fine king. There now, all finished. Can I help you with your dress?"

"Yes, please," said Éowyn, as she stood up and began unfastening the closures of the dressing gown. "It's the one hanging on the door just inside the wardrobe."

Berga opened the door and gasped slightly when she saw the dark green velvet gown hanging there, for she had expected Éowyn to wear the same mourning gown she had chosen for Prince Théodred's funeral, Béma rest his soul. She had been impressed with Éowyn's dressing gown, but this one took away her breath with its simple beauty. Adorned with a thin golden cord and tiny white seed pearls, this gown was stunningly elegant and yet, somehow perfect for the funeral of Théoden King, for it was made of the colors of his house.

Éowyn had been watching Berga to gauge the woman's reaction to her choice, acutely aware that it was not exactly standard issue funeral wear. She had made the decision to wear this color eschewing the traditional black for a very specific reason. She smiled when Berga turned to her with tears in her eyes. "Your uncle would be pleased and proud to see you so honor him, Éowyn."

Sudden tears stung her own eyes at Berga's words, and she walked over to stand by the woman, her hand reaching out to smooth the soft material of the dress in Berga's arms. "He did not expect to return from the Pelennor. Before he led the men from Dunharrow, he told me that he wanted me to have 'no more despair,' and to smile again."

The two women were interrupted by the sound of childish laughter followed by the slam of a door. They both grimaced for a moment and then laughed.

"Well, I'd best be rounding them up," said Berga. "Would you like me to call another to assist you with your gown?"

"No, Berga, but thank you. I will be fine. I could actually use a few minutes alone to ready myself for the ceremony."

O-o-O-o-O

"Come," said Éomer in answer to the knock on his door. Struggling to fasten his vambrace one handed, he looked up to see Gamling enter.

"Let me help you with that, Sire." He took up the vambrace Éomer was holding and began to fastening it onto the warrior's arm. "I remember doing this for Théoden King before the battle at Helm's Deep. We thought that all of Middle Earth had forsaken us. So outnumbered were we that the King had instructed the old men and strong lads armed for the defense."

Éomer, fascinated by what Gamling was telling him, could easily picture the fear and desperation that must have been felt by those who were not trained warriors. "It was an overwhelming army you faced."

"Aye, we did not know that the elves were even then marching to aid us. I am shamed to say that we had almost lost hope."

"Even Uncle?" asked Éomer.

"Aye. I'll never forget what he said. '_Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the West, behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?_'"

Éomer frowned as he imagined his uncle saying those words…imagined the despair that he must have felt facing such an army with so few men, knowing that the women and children would be slaughtered once the men had fallen.

"It was not long after he spoke that we heard the Elven horns blowing, and when we had lost hope, you, sire, were the horse and the rider. You all came."

Éomer's mind conjured the scene that had burnt itself into his memory.

_Gandalf had reached him near midnight a day past, and informed him of the dire situation facing those at Helm's Deep. They had ridden hard for almost 36 hours, stopping only to rest the horses and men at need. Each time they had been forced to stop, Éomer had paced the ground, impatient to be off again, fearing for Éowyn, his uncle, and all the people, until Gandalf had forced him to sleep for just a bit. He could still hardly dare hope to believe that his uncle had been well and truly broken from Gríma's spell, as Gandalf had said. How long had it been since he had seen his uncle clear-headed and strong of limb? _

_Éomer had tried everything he knew how to do to reach his uncle, but the spell had been too powerful. It seemed that nothing he could say would reach though the gloom of his manacled mind as he grew weaker each day until he could not even feed himself. Even when he had presented the king with evidence that it was the orcs of the white hand that struck down Théodred, his uncle had been unmoved. _

_Théodred. Even the thought of his cousin's name brought a lump to his throat. Éomer had known the moment he saw the ugly wound to Theo's body that it was mortal. He had hoped to be by his cousin's side bringing what comfort he could to the man who had been like a brother to him, and to ease Theo's passing from this world to the next, but that had been taken from him when Gríma's henchmen had dragged him from the Meduseld. He would not forget their faces and vowed to take his revenge on them. He did not even know yet whether or not, by some miracle, his cousin still lived, or whether he had died a slow agonizing death. _

_And then there was Éowyn… Éomer clenched his fists as he thought about how that worm had leered at his sister. Now she was barricaded within Helms Deep, waiting for the Uruks to break though and hack the women and children to death. He could not bear to think of his beautiful little sister at the mercy of those evil perversions. Oh, he knew that she would fight to the end, protecting the children, but it would only be a matter of time before the brutes would overcome her efforts. He closed his eyes, fighting to banish the image of Éowyn being struck down and slaughtered._

_Gríma had stolen so much from him…had much for which to answer!_

_As the troop of riders neared the rise, Gandalf shot ahead of the éoreds, for he was upon Shadowfax, and no horse could hope to keep up with the Lord of the Mearas. Nearing the summit, Éomer's blood ran cold as he heard the horn of Helm Hammerhand echoing across the valley. The sound and tumult of many voices in battle also assaulted his ears._

_Gandalf turned back to look at him. "Théoden King stands alone."_

_Éomer had ridden up beside Gandalf and looked down upon the valley to see his darkest nightmare come to life. Like thousands of writhing snakes, the ground swarmed with the black armored orcs of Saruman. Like a plague of locust they covered every conceivable surface below and their numbers were like nothing Éomer had ever faced. Worse yet, the deeping wall had been breeched and the horde was pouring into the keep. His eyes then fell upon Snowmane. Unbelievably his uncle was riding out proud and strong, leading only a few riders, his beautiful white horse standing out like a beacon upon the dark sea. _

"_Not alone," Éomer had said, almost to himself as much as to Gandalf. "Rohirrim!" he had shouted, so loud that the horde below had paused and looked up. "To the King!"_

_With that shout two thousand enraged riders had ridden down the impossibly steep incline to battle the enemy which threatened their people._

Were he possessed with the immortality of the elves, Éomer knew that he would never forget that moment: the thrill of seeing his uncle broken from the spell and leading in battle, the terror of seeing the wall breached, and the overpowering anger at the Uruk hai attacking his people. Éomer had fought like a mad man, exorcising all the demons of the past weeks of exile. He had been chased from Edoras like a criminal, banished from Rohan upon pain of death, and yet he would gladly trade his life for the chance to fight by the side of his king…his beloved uncle.

"It is time, sire," said Gamling, breaking Éomer's train of thought.

"Gamling, wait. You are my most trusted friend and have been by my side since the Pelennor. Today I would like to officially make you Chief Knight of the Royal Guard. Would you serve me thus, friend?" Éomer offered his arm for a warrior's grasp.

Gamling, surprised by the offer and momentarily choked up, took his king's proffered arm. "It would be my greatest honor, my lord. I will protect you and your family all the days of my life and with my life."

Éomer smiled and squeezed Gamling's elbow. "Let us both hope that it never comes to that, shall we?"

O-o-O-o-O

The Royal Guard, fifty strong, lined each side of the great hall, from the throne to the front door. Outside, the line of guards continued down each side of the steps. Where the Royal Guard stopped, warriors of the éoreds, led by Marshal's Erkenbrand of the Westfold and Ceorl of the Eastemnet, had taken up position so that the line of warriors stretched all the way down the hill to the burial mounds of the royals. As on the day the funeral procession first entered Edoras, each warrior held a spear adorned with a green or red standard, bordered in gold and bearing the white horse symbol of the royal house of Eorl. The standards snapped and popped in the ever present winds funneling from the surrounding mountains and buffeting Edoras most days of the year.

Behind the warriors stood the crowds of people both local and from all the surrounding lands of the Mark. By the hundreds they had journeyed here to pay their respects to Théoden and to pledge their loyalty to Éomer King.

Inside the hall, Éowyn entered escorted by Faramir. The steward, wearing the same silver armor and royal blue robes he had worn for the coronation of Aragorn, led Éowyn to the side of the throne. Following them were the children. The boys came first, Bergoff, Felor, Tredin and Gandafin, followed by Márta and Meela. Hálith brought up the rear carrying Thela, for the little girl was frightened by the spectacle and the sadness marring the countenance of the people. For once the little chatterbox was completely quiet, with her head buried in Hálith's hair.

As Éomer entered the room, the guards snapped to attention. Followed by Gamling, Éomer crossed the hall to stand before the throne.

At a nod of his head those of the Royal Guard appointed as the Royal Bearers hoisted the banner draped casket. Herugrim, the king's sword, had been removed and stored safely away to await its presentation to another of the line of Eorl. Should Éomer die young, his sword, Guthwine would go to his eldest son, but should he live a long life, his son would be presented Herugrim on the day he became a warrior. It was a warrior's highest honor to be gifted with a sword from his father's house, and swords were routinely passed down for generations.

A nomadic people, the Rohirrim were, for the most part, unlearned. They had no tradition of writing, and books or scrolls would have been a hindrance in their way of life. Their history and their rich culture were handed down orally through the generations by the tales of valor passed from parent to child.

Their culture revolved around their magnificent horses, and they placed value on each other and their horses rather than on material wealth. They found it vastly confounding that the people of Minas Tirith could be happy trapped and living within walls of stone. The people of Rohan farmed their land and hunted for their food. Theirs was a simple, happy life. Their clothes were hand crafted from animal hides, wool or sometimes harvested flax.

Besides their mearas herds, ore was the second most coveted need for the people of Rohan. They mined none of their own, but instead traded for it with Gondor. Their smithies then turned it into everything from cooking pots to the beautifully crafted swords that protected them. Thus, swords and armor were handed down from father to son. They would be cleaned and, if necessary, patched and then presented to the son or nephew with great ceremony, for the history of the sword, particularly, was tied to the history of each individual family. Upon receiving the sword, the young warrior, who had undoubtedly been raised listening to his family history, would recite the saga of his newly earned prize. It was the unwritten belief then that he was the bearer of a sacred trust to pass on this story to his children with the passing of his sword. Each young, new warrior rode forth into battle secure in the knowledge that he continued the proud tradition of his ancestors and that his actions would be known to them.

Also removed from the casket was the oval Shield of the Kings. It was the one piece of Théoden's armor which would not be buried with him, but rather would be passed to the new king to carry. It was larger than most of the shields carried by the éoreds, to provide greater protection for the king. Covered in green leather, the shield was decorated in bronze with the image of the sun. Surrounding the sun were scenes of a boar hunt.

The ceremonial head of the honor guard carried the shield to Éomer, who placed his hand upon it signifying his acceptance of the rule. It was then taken by Gamling, as the new Chief of Knights, to be placed "at ready" with Guthwine should the king be required to ride into battle.

Once Gamling had returned to Éomer's side, he signaled the honor guard to begin carrying the casket bearing the body of the king - who had ruled from this hall for 39 years - from the Meduseld for the last time. Slowly and with precision the guard half stepped through the assembled warriors and citizens. For many of them, Théoden was the only king they had ever known, and even as they mourned Théoden, they wondered what the rule of Éomer would bring.

Immediately after the honor guard walked Éomer, followed by Faramir and Éowyn, Gamling, the children, and the others of the king's household. Hildegard, who had secretly loved Théoden for many years, did not attend. She had slipped into the hall during the night to say a private good bye to the king. Even now she was working in the kitchen with a few volunteers so that she would be able to provide a hot, nourishing lunch to the Royal family after the service. Hildegard would show her love and devotion to Théoden the same way she always had, by providing for his family and seeing to their needs.

The meal she was supervising for after the funeral consisted of roasted boar, sweet yams baked in their skins, a variety of vegetables from the garden, loaves of fresh dark bread, ale, milk for the children, and apple cobbler as a special treat for the King. Éomer had loved Hildegard's apple cobbler since he was a young boy, and she loved being able to fix it for him. She was as tough and crusty an old bird as they come, but she had a soft spot for all of the king's family. They were, in essence, her family as this was her home, and she was pouring all the love she had into this meal - burying her grief in her work and hoping to provide what comfort she could for the ones she loved.

Outside, Théoden's coffin was being placed into the burial mound beside Théodred's as the women of Edoras intoned the traditional burial song.

Bealocwealm hafað fréone frecan forth onsended  
giedd sculon singan gléomenn sorgiende  
on Meduselde þæt he ma no wære  
his dryhtne dyrest and mæga deorost.   
(An evil death has set forth the noble warrior  
A song shall sing sorrowing minstrels  
in Meduseld that he is no more,  
to his lord dearest and kinsmen most beloved.)

Éowyn closed her eyes as she felt her hand enclosed by Faramir's larger one. She needed his strength as the memory of singing these same words for her sweet Theo echoed in her mind. How cruel that they should have to be sung again so soon.

She jumped slightly as she felt Éomer take her elbow and realized that the stone had already been moved to seal the tomb and it was time for the two of them to lay the flowers and light the incense. The flowers symbolized the rebirth of the departed as one who would now walk with his fathers, and the rising smoke from the incense pot was to aid his spirit on his journey to the hallowed halls of his ancestors.

Éomer led Éowyn to the tomb where they placed fresh picked simbelmynë in specially made ceramic pots and lit the wicks on two identical copper incense urns. Éowyn knelt before the closest urn and moved both her hands through the rising smoke, breathing deeply of the incense. Éomer repeated the movements on the urn nearest him. This was the family assertion that they would carry part of the spirit of Théoden with them for the rest of their lives.

From the Meduseld above them the great iron bell began to ring 39 times, one gong for each year that Théoden King reigned. When the last peal of the bell had echoed across the plain, the funeral was officially over, and Éomer led Éowyn up the hill, followed by the rest of the funeral party.

Traditionally the Royal Family would spend the next four days in seclusion, after which a banquet would be served for all the Marshals of the Mark and a city wide celebration would be held in Edoras featuring games, merchandise booths, and much feasting. All of this was to honor the life of Théoden Ednew, son of Thengel, seventeenth King of Rohan.


	13. Chapter 13, The Looming Threat

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**A Looming Threat**

"_Let us behold the light while we may, for darkness ever encroaches." Anon_

"_Give love, and love to your life will flow,_

_A strength in your utmost need;_

_Have faith, and a score of hearts will show_

_Their faith in your work and deed."_

_From Life's Mirror, by M. Bridges_

_**This chapter is dedicated to all those who are giving so generously of their time, their energy, their hearts, love and resources to aid the victims of Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. All across this land there are small, local Red Cross chapters manned by volunteers who are working to give aid, comfort and hope. Though many try to fracture us, when we all pull together we are a force to be reckoned with…the true spirit of E Pluribus Unum.**_

Garoth hurled his mug of ale across the shadowy hall and barreled to his feet. Masked in fury, his gruff, scarred features were made even fiercer as he glowered at the man before him. "Barech! You dare to state that any from Snowbourne should have attended the funeral of Théoden?"

The elderly man flinched slightly at the malice in his Marshal's voice, but bravely held his ground. "My lord, he was our king…"

"Silence!" roared the Marshal, interrupting the man before he could even complete his sentence. "I will hear no more of this." He gestured to two grim faced men beside him. "Lock him up with the others. I will hear no more of this treason."

As the ruffians seized the man brutally by the arms, an older woman burst from among the spectators and threw herself onto the stone floor, begging at Garoth's feet. "My lord, please…my husband meant no disrespect to you. We have learned our lesson. Mercy!"

Garoth considered the weeping woman for a moment before responding. "Halt," he called to the pair dragging the old man from the hall. "Release him, Gilmóod."

"But uncle," argued dark man. Dressed all in black and with dark hair and eyes…that is what the people of Snowbourne called him in private. It fit in more ways than just his appearance, for the darkness he'd brought to their lives since his arrival was rivaled only by the darkness of his soul.

"I said release him!" Garoth's face was beet colored and a vein throbbed across his forehead. For a moment, the man literally looked as though he could wring his nephew's neck without a second thought. He staggered somewhat over to a table and sank down on the bench, cradling his aching head in his hands.

Gilmóod frowned but complied, nodding at the bully by his side, who shoved the old man roughly to the floor, kicking at him as he attempted to crawl over to his wife. "You were lucky this time, Barech," hissed the man. "Next time you will not be so fortunate."

Barech got shakily to his feet and, wrapping an arm around his wife, helped her to her feet. The elderly couple left the hall as quickly as they could. Only the soft sobs of the woman could be heard as all fell deathly quiet within the room.

"Uncle," cooed Gilmóod silkily, "let me fix you a potion for your head. It grieves me that you should suffer so."

"Ah, you are too good to me," replied Garoth tiredly, as he rubbed his temples. "Why do these people continue to vex me so? Do they think I take this action lightly?"

"Of course not," crooned Gilmóod. "They are soft, Garoth. Too many years they have followed blindly the lead from Edoras. While the king sat in luxury, they have lived in poverty, yet they held to some outmoded notion of loyalty. They kneel to lick the boot of the one who would keep them enslaved! What did Rohan care for them? Nothing! Théoden grew rich off of the people and became corrupted by the ranger from the North. And now a pretender sits on the throne of Rohan"

"Still, I can hardly believe it," moaned Garoth, as his head pounded even stronger than before, "Grimbold and Dúnhere both dead. Had you and your men not come here to bear witness of it personally I would never have known of his treachery."

"It is as I have said, Uncle," vowed Gilmóod, as he kneaded Garoth's neck muscles with practiced hands. "Snowbourne shall be its own nation, and soon enough the others will clamor to fall into line with us, forsaking Rohan forever."

"Umm," moaned Garoth, "your hands are like magic to my muscles. Grimbold, my old friend, I shall avenge you." he murmured as his head dropped onto the table.

"I shall always be here to help you, uncle. Now wait here. Have some more ale while I go prepare a potion to ease your head."

"Thank you, my boy; thank you."

O-o-O-o-O

Erkenbrand and Gamling set out at dawn on the morning following Théoden's funeral, not even waiting for the four days of official mourning period to end. The Marshal and the Chief of the King's Knights were accompanied by six of Erkenbrand's éored to make the journey to Snowbourne. Though puzzled by the failure of Garoth's éoreds to appear at Dunharrow, Erkenbrand had no expectation of anything amiss. After all, the call that went out was a hurried one, and though unusual that not one rider from Snowbourne had come, there could be a valid reason. He felt sure that once Éomer King and Garoth were able to speak face to face the matter would be resolved quickly. Still, it was going to be a touchy situation _requesting_ Garoth to accompany them back to Edoras.

"You spoke to Garoth yourself?" questioned Erkenbrand, as the two rode side by side. The troop was allowing the horses to walk at a comfortable pace to start with, so conversation was easy. Man and beast seemed to be waking slowly.

Gamling resisted the urge to roll his eyes, instead focusing them on the lengthening shadows cast by Anor kissing the tops of the White Mountains. The morning was cool and dew still clung to the grasses swaying in the morning breeze, making Gamling glad to be wrapped in his heavier green travel cloak. As they rode higher into the mountains its added warmth would definitely be welcome. He sighed audibly, growing a little weary of being asked that question repeatedly. "Yes, I spoke to him myself."

"Did he say anything?" persisted the Marshal, still trying to grapple with the possible reason for Garoth's failure to appear.

Gamling fixed Erkenbrand with a look that promised violence in the near future, before he caught himself and shook off the irritation, reminding himself that they were undertaking a difficult mission and that the Marshal was only trying to understand the circumstances. So he sighed again and composed his answer. "I spoke to the Marshal and relayed the king's summons. As I remember, he did not respond." Gamling hesitated, forcing his mind back those months to the scene. "But I did not wait for an answer," he admitted. "My charge was to ride across the Mark to announce the muster. Once I delivered the message, I rode on. It never occurred to me that a Marshal would refuse the call."

"Why would it," snorted Erkenbrand. "He should have come," he concluded finally. "Why did he not come?" he asked no one in particular. The Marshal just shook his head, trying to fathom what piece of information could be eluding him that would solve the puzzle.

Gamling did not answer because he knew one was not required.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir and Éowyn sat on a huge overstuffed chair situated along one wall of in the sitting room of the king's apartment in the Meduseld. Faramir was leaning back into the corner of the chair, with his bride-to-be reclining against him, her feet tucked up beside her. They were watching the sight before them with pleasure. Surrounded by seven children, Éomer sat in the floor on one of the soft pelts situated in front of the huge fire place. Hálith had joined the group tonight as the king told the children their nightly story. He sat now with his back against the wall, Thela snuggled on his lap. The little girl had all but attached herself to Hálith, preferring his lap to even that of her "Farmeer" when he was in the room. The three-year-old's eyes drooped as she grew drowsy cuddled by the warmth of the fire.

Éomer sat crossed legged with his back to the fireplace. Márta and Meela were on either side of him, their little elbows resting on the king's knees as they looked up at him in rapt attention. Bergoff, Felord, Tredin were sprawled in front of him. Gandafin, the youngest boy, who had decided his goal in life was to be an Ithilien Ranger, was leaning back against Faramir's legs. The flickering wall sconces cast comforting shadows that joined the flames in the fireplace as the only light illuminating the cozy room.

In another stuffed chair sat Elena, who had recovered enough to join the group this evening. Wrapped in a woolen shawl, she sipped some warm tea and smiled at the children arrayed around the king. She had discovered earlier in the day that the little ones loved hearing stories, and she had many that she was looking forward to telling them, but for now she was just enjoying watching Éomer's face become animated as he regaled the children with his tale.

Sated from their supper, bathed and ready for their beds, the children nodded contentedly as they listened to their king telling them the story. It had become a much anticipated ritual, and the children had grown as familiar with Éomer as they were with Faramir and Éowyn. Tonight the king was telling them of the first time he had gone on a boar hunt with Théoden and Théodred. He had ventured out into the woods on his own and had become separated from the group and attacked by one of the enraged beasts.

Éomer was careful to tone down the actual events so as not to frighten the children, who had all seen enough traumas in their short lives. In truth, he had been gored by the boar, his leg badly mangled. He likely would have been killed had not Théodred found him first and slain the beast before it could finish the job.

Théodred had bound Éomer's leg to staunch the flow of blood and carried the boy back to the campsite. A messenger was dispatched to notify the other search parties that Éomer had been found while Théodred and Erkenbrand had worked feverishly to repair the damaged leg before Éomer bled to death. Éomer could still remember the pain of having his leg worked on without anything more than a few gulps of ale for deadening. The blood loss was severe and Éomer slipped in and out of consciousness as the more painful procedures were accomplished.

As soon as the messenger had informed him that Éomer had been found injured and brought to camp, Théoden had rushed back. He blanched when he saw the amount of blood despoiling Éomer and the ground around him.

Éomer closed his eyes a moment remembering the look on Théoden's face as he had returned to camp and seen his nephew's condition. Up until this point it had been a great day. The air that afternoon was so clear it almost hurt your eyes to look at it, it was so beautiful. Autumn, it was…cool and crisp, and the kind of day you bank away to remember during the long, cold winters. Théoden had smiled at him, but the fear in his eyes was plain enough for Éomer to see.

"_Uncle?" _

_Théoden swallowed his fear and, taking the boy's outstretched hand, knelt beside Éomer. "I am here, Éomer. What have you managed to do, my boy?" he smiled, squeezing Éomer's hand in encouragement. _

_Éomer always took strange comfort in the way his uncle's eyes seemed to crinkle at the edges when he smiled. It always reminded the boy of his mother, whose eyes did the same thing._

"_I let the boar take me by surprise, uncle. He was much faster than I imagined him to be." Éomer gasped in pain as Théodred and Erkenbrand continued trying to staunch the blood flow. He felt as though his head was beginning to spin._

"_Was he now?" soothed Théoden, attempting to distract his nephew from the pain. He stroked the dampened tendrils of blonde hair back from Éomer's forehead._

"_He was actually a she," said Théodred. "You stumbled onto her litter and set her off." He kept his voice light, attempting to buoy his cousin's spirits, but Éomer's eyes were closed and he seemed to have lost consciousness. Théodred turned troubled eyes to his father and lowered his voice so that Éomer could not hear. "We need to start heating an iron. I cannot stop the bleeding."_

_Théoden's blood ran cold at the thought of what they were going to be required to do. He'd seen grown men scream in agony when cauterization was necessary, but there was no choice. Without it, the boy would bleed to death before they could get him back to Edoras. The hot iron would seal the wound. Théoden nodded his head to Erkenbrand to begin the process while he moved into the Marshal's spot to take up holding pressure on Éomer's leg. _

_Éomer's eyes opened and blinked rapidly several times as he fought for consciousness. He desperately wanted to be brave before his uncle, Theo and the other men, but he was in horrible pain. He had a flash of a man that he often saw when he would go down to Bergfinn's smithy. The man, named Felor, had only one leg and hobbled around with the aid of a crutch. He often came to the smithy to sit on the bales of hay and chat with Bergfinn as he worked. The blacksmith told Éomer that the man was once a great rider who, while fighting orcs, had been badly wounded to the point that it was necessary to remove his leg to save his life. Éomer had shuddered, vowing – as the young will - that he would rather die than live a life so restricted. Bergfinn had chuckled and reminded the boy that it was easy to say such things when you were outside the situation and that, Béma willing, he hoped Éomer would never have to make such a decision. A cold sweat of dread broke out on the boy's forehead as he remembered that conversation. _

"_Éomer, listen to me," urged Théoden. "I am going to have to use the iron on your leg."_

_Horror filled Éomer's eyes as he looked from his uncle to the fire where Erkenbrand was heating the iron. "No!" Momentarily panicked, the boy began trying to pull away from Théoden and Théodred. _

"_No, Éomer," demanded Théoden in his most commanding tone. "Listen to me. If we do not do this you will never ride again."_

_The camp was deathly quiet save for Éomer's panting as he absorbed that news. "Never ride…" _

"_It will hurt, Éomer; I will not lie to you, but then it will be past."_

"_And I will ride again? Promise me I will ride again!" begged Éomer, tears streaming down his face as he fought down the panic threatening to overtake him._

"_You have my word," Théoden vowed softly, lifting a blood covered hand to grasp the boy's shoulder and guide him back down onto his back. "Rest now and gather yourself. Teddy and I are right here with you, Éomer; we will not leave your side._

_As Erkenbrand walked over to them with the iron, Théoden motioned for Teddy to move behind Éomer's head. He would make sure that it was he and Teddy holding the boy while Erkenbrand sealed the damaged artery. He waited until the last moment to move his hands away, holding the pressure on the bleeding leg as long as possible. _

_Théoden fought the urge to gag when the iron met flesh and sizzled sickeningly. Éomer screamed and spasmed in agony, but did not fight back against him. Mercifully, the boy passed out quickly from the shock and pain. Erkenbrand and Théodred quickly spread a salve across the burn and bandaged the leg while Théoden cradled the boy in his arms, rocking slowly back and forth as he whispered encouragement and praise. _

_As soon as the leg was bandaged, Théoden wrapped him in his own cloak and carried him to the horses. He handed Éomer to Erkenbrand long enough to mount up and then took the boy back into his arms, intent upon carrying his nephew himself. Théoden shot off, closely followed by Théodred, as his guard hustled to mount up and give chase._

_Éomer had developed a high fever by the time Théoden got him back to Edoras. For several days he lingered on the brink of the abyss as Théoden remained by his side, beseeching Béma to spare his life. Théodred kept Éowyn occupied by taking her riding and playing dolls with her. Twice he slept on the foot of her bed because the little girl would wake up crying in the night, afraid that she'd lost her brother like she had her parents._

_Late one night, Théodred had come into Éomer's room to relieve Théoden, and asked him a question that he'd been pondering since the day of the accident. "Why did you not tell Éomer that he could die if we did not use the iron on his leg?"_

_Théoden gently laid a dampened cool cloth across Éomer's feverish forehead and raised weary eyes to his son. Even in his worried and fatigued state, he could not keep the small smile from lighting his face and crinkling his eyes. "Because, Théodred," he began slowly, once more dipping the cloth into the cool water and wringing it out before continuing, "Éomer's fear might have convinced him it would be better to die than to endure the iron. The one thing I knew he could endure anything for was the ability to ride. Riding is his life." He smiled gently down at the sleeping boy. "I dare say that one day his skill shall rival even yours."_

Éowyn watched the play of emotion on her brother's face as he glossed over the more painful parts of the story. Even though she had been young, she remembered the nights of terror where she clung crying to Theo, terrified that Éomer was being taken away from her. She also remembered the long often painful months of recuperation that Éomer had been forced to endure…the nights when Théoden would massage oil into the scar on Éomer's leg while gently stretching the limb to regain mobility...or when Theo would work the leg, strengthening the muscle to its previous state. She smiled as she noticed that even now Éomer was unconsciously rubbing the scarred leg, something he often did without even realizing it. Those long and difficult months had cemented the little family together. Even Éowyn had gotten into the act by making up stories to entertain her brother while he endured the more painful parts of the therapy.

That Éomer had regained his full strength and ability to ride was a testament to the love of a family that refused to give up on him…that fought back the darkness which threatened to overtake him, and never let him give up on his dream to ride again. That was the kind of love he intended to instill in these children. Every child deserved to grow up with a full belly, knowing he or she was loved and protected.

A yawn from Meela drew Éomer's attention, and he gathered the sleeping child into his arms. "Let us go, little ones. It is time for sleep."

Faramir and Éowyn rose to accompany Éomer and the rest of the children to Theo's room where their beds were located. Faramir chuckled and reached down to pick up Gandafin, who had fallen asleep draped across his feet. Thela was asleep in Hálith's lap so the boy rose awkwardly while still holding the sleeping child. Even Elena was nodding in her chair, only rousing up a bit as the other adults rose to take the children to bed.

"Would you need my help, my lord?" asked the woman hopefully.

"Certainly, Mother," assured Éomer. "Could you help us tuck these little ones into bed?"

"Oh yes, my lord," beamed Elena. She'd never had babes of her own and helping with the children made her feel useful again.

After the children were tucked into bed and kissed good-night the adults went back to the sitting room where they would enjoy quiet conversation and, perhaps, a pot or two of tea. Tomorrow would end the formal mourning period and they would be expected to host the banquet for the Marshals.

Foregoing the tea, Éomer sipped a mug of ale and stared into the fire, his mind wandering far from the small talk of the other three. His mind was on the meeting tomorrow with the Marshals, on the reports they would bring regarding the conditions of the herds and on what food stuffs had survived the war. He felt sure as well that there were more orphans like the eight living here with him now. He knew that he could provide for these, but all the children needed parents, someone to love and guide them. Then there were the widows, like Elena, alone and vulnerable, and tonight his memory had reminded him of the disabled, like Felor, who could no longer ride or serve the Mark in the ways they had always done, but who could serve in other ways if given the chance and made to feel their self worth again. Lastly, his mind was with Erkenbrand and Gamling. What would they find in Snowbourne? For what reason would a Marshal of the Mark have forsaken a call from his king? There was a mystery here, and Éomer was determined to get it uncovered. There was a long winter coming which could prove to be as great a threat to his people as the war had been. He needed his mind clear to deal with these problems, yet the mystery remained…like a looming cloud threatening to cover Anor and sink them all into darkness…


	14. Chapter 14, The Meeting of the Marshals

**To the King**

**Chapter Fourteen**

**The Meeting of the Marshals**

"_I want people to know my life philosophy, to remember to play after ever storm." Mattie Stepanik_

"_How can I celebrate a victory that has cost me so many of my friends?" The Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo_

It was afternoon of the fifth day following the funeral for Théoden Ednew, seventeenth King of Rohan. In the capitol city of Edoras, as accorded by custom, a great festival was being held to honor the fallen king and signify the close of formal mourning throughout the Mark.

Walking down the hill from the Meduseld with seven year old Márta upon his shoulders, Faramir looked around before stopping at a stall to get two apples from a young woman, who blushed furiously and batted her eyes at the Lord of Gondor. After thanking the young woman, he handed one up to the child atop his shoulders, before taking a big bite of the fruit, relishing the tartness of the taste. Smiling, he wiped apple juice from his chin with the back of his hand and continued walking. Above his head, he could hear Márta chomping contentedly on her apple and he wondered idly whether or not he'd need to wash apple juice from his hair tonight.

Faramir reflected upon the gaiety going on around him. How very different it was from the more formal atmosphere that would be observed in Gondor. Before coming to Rohan and actually spending so much time here with Éowyn, Éomer, and the people, he would not have understood their ability to grieve hard and then move on about their lives. Life in Rohan was marked by difficulties and often tragedy, yet this remarkable people had learned to make every possible moment of their lives be filled with living and loving, celebrating the times when they could have peace and happiness. Perhaps that is what made them able to not only endure, but triumph over every adversity that fate seemed to throw against them.

It was not that life in Gondor had been without its difficulties, the minions of Sauron had seen that there was enough misery to go around for all the free peoples of Middle Earth, but the people of Gondor, with their more cosmopolitan ways, seemed to wrap layer upon layer of formalities and protocol upon every occasion. He could still remember the long walk down the Rath Dinen, the silent street, following the bier bearing his mother's body to where it would rest forever in the Hallows. Dressed in identical small uniforms, 5 year old Faramir and 10 year old Boromir had walked solemnly behind their father, their heads held high, unable to shed a tear in public. Boromir had actually broken protocol by holding Faramir's hand, for even at this young age, Boromir had loved and protected his baby brother.

'Boro-mir.' The vision of golden hair, keen green eyes and a ready smile hit the steward like a sucker punch, stealing the breath from him and bringing quick, hot tears to his eyes as he almost staggered to a halt, mindless of the curious glances from those around him. It was always like this. Just when he thought he was beginning to adjust to the loss of his brother, something would happen …some random thought would enter his mind and the reality of his loss would hit him all over again. Boromir, it meant faithful jewel, and he had been that and more to a little boy who lost his mother too early in life and whose father had turned away from him, weighed down by his own grief and the responsibility for governing and protecting Gondor from the growing threat of Mordor. It was the faithful jewel that had become both mother and father to Faramir, loving him, rocking him when the nightmares came at night, and filling his world with as much love as was possible for one sibling to give another. He was the rock upon which Faramir had anchored his life. He was the idol upon which Faramir had gazed, striving always to be worthy of his brother's respect.

A small, sticky hand reached down to wipe the lone tear from Faramir's cheek. "Faramir, are you sad? I will give you my apple if it will make you happy again," offered Márta, and true to her word, the half eaten fruit was waved in front of his face.

"No, Márta, thank you," breathed Faramir, thankful for the little girl to divert his attention and pull him back to the present. With her ginger hair and sparkling green eyes, he had been drawn to her from the moment he had set eyes upon her, for she could easily have been Boromir's child, or even his own. With his beautiful Éowyn, she and the other children had come to represent the future to which they had all sacrificed so much. It was for the innocents that so much blood had been spilt and so many lives torn asunder, and it was the innocents which gave meaning to all they did, for they _were_ the future.

Faramir took a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly as he became mindful of the concerned looks he was receiving.

"Are you well, my lord?" inquired a one legged man leaning on a crutch. "Why don't you step into the smithy here and have a seat. I'm sure Bergfinn won't mind."

Embarrassed at the prospect of causing any more of a scene, Faramir thanked the man, whose name, he said, was Felor, and followed him into the shadowy barn.

"Here, Bergy," called Felor, "we're in need of some water here." He pointed to a bail of hay. "There, my lord, just have a seat now and I'll be getting you something to drink."

"Thank you," stammered Faramir, chagrined to be such a bother. He sat down gratefully onto the hay, for his legs had suddenly become a bit wobbly, as they often did after one of his more vivid visions from the past. Lifting Márta over his head, he sat the little girl on his lap and soothed her, for she had become frightened by the sudden turn of events.

"Well," greeted Bergfinn, entering the smithy from a side door which led to his house, "what have we here?"

"The lord became indisposed at the festival. I brought him in here to get 'em away from the crowd out there." He jerked his thumb towards the door emphasizing his point. "You know how nosy people can get when they are looking for something to wag their tongues about."

"Indeed I do," agreed Bergfinn. "I'll fetch some water and be right back." He disappeared through the same door from which he'd just entered and, true to his word, was back within a minute with four mugs of cool, fresh water.

'Thank you," murmured Faramir as he took two of the mugs for himself and Márta.

Wise eyes studied him a moment. "Sit, Felor, give that leg a rest. It's not often that we have the chance to visit with such esteemed guests," said Bergfinn as he settled himself down as well.

Felor sat back onto a bail of hay and, with a sigh of relief, set the crutch aside as he stretched his leg out in front of him.

"And who is this pretty thing?" asked Bergfinn. "It's been a long time since I had such a beautiful young visitor to my smithy."

"I'm Márta," answered the child, calmed now that she was cuddled on Faramir's lap. "My sister and Thela are taking a nap, but I am big enough to stay up," announced the proud youngster.

"So you are," agreed Bergfinn, nodding sagely, "so you are!" He smiled at the little girl as she drank her water and finished her apple.

"I must apologize for the intrusion," said Faramir. "Your hospitality is most appreciated, however."

Felor leaned back against a sturdy beam located behind his current seat. He chuckled as he looked from Faramir to Bergfinn. "Most everyone in Edoras ends up here at one time or another, so I guess it's just your turn. Right, Bergy?"

Bergfinn turned indulgent eyes to his friend. "What Felor is trying to say is that I like people, and I like to talk."

"But don't you worry now, Bergy knows how to keep things to himself," interrupted Felor. "You won't find 'em out chatting to the noseys about your business."

"Enough," laughed Bergfinn, "Let Lord Faramir get a word in himself, why don't you."

"Well someone's got to talk until the man decides to," exclaimed the veteran.

"Felor!"

"Gentlemen," Faramir laughed, "Enough!" He was quite enjoying the easy banter of the friends and not unaware that this was their attempt to put him at ease and make him feel welcomed. "I am most appreciative of the opportunity to sit in your fine establishment, Bergfinn, and grateful for your kind assistance, Felor."

"Well, well," smiled Bergfinn, "you must be feeling a bit more yourself now. I am glad to see it. I could never face Éowyn again if I did not show the proper welcome to her intended. Many's the time she sat right there," he pointed to the bail of hay Faramir now occupied, "watching me work and talking up a storm the whole while."

Faramir smiled fondly at the image of Éowyn as a little girl, chattering and carefree as she watched the smithy work.

"Éomer was always the quiet one," added Felor. "I used to catch him staring at my leg, or rather at where my leg used to be. He would turn all red and pretend he was looking at something else when I caught him, but I did not mind. A boy is curious, that is all."

"Éowyn and the King used to come here when they were little?" asked Márta, intrigued now that she thought about Éowyn as a little girl.

"Indeed they did," said Bergfinn, "when they were just about your age, too. Let me tell you about the time Éowyn nearly set the smithy on fire."

O-o-O-o-O

_The Meduseld_

While festivities proceeded outside, the Golden Hall was the setting for the meeting of the Marshals. Erkenbrand, of course, was headed for Snowbourne with Gamling, but attending in his stead was his former second, Fingol, who stood warming his hands over the center fire pit and chatting with his cousin, Liam. The other Marshals and their seconds stood talking around a long table, which had been set up for the meeting.

Éomer entered unannounced from the side door. As soon as the men became aware of his approach, Fingol and Liam joined the other marshals as all talking ceased until the King had taken his place at the head of the table.

As the senior marshal present, Marshal Elfhelm offered the blessing for the new king. "Éomer King, may your reign be blessed with the peace of Goldwine's, and may you be beloved of the people as Brytta Léofa." He spoke, of course, of former kings of the Mark Brytta, eleventh King of Rohan who reigned for 44 years and was called Brytta Léofa meaning Brytta Beloved, and of Goldwine, the sixth Lord of the Mark whose reign, while only 19 years, was marked by peace and prosperity.

"May it be," echoed the other marshals.

"Thank you, my friends," answered Éomer. "Please, be seated."

As the marshals and seconds were taking their seats, Hildegard led in a bevy of serving girls bearing tankards of ale. She personally served the king and observed as the other marshals were each given a beautifully crafted tankard. The mithril tankards belonged to the king's service and had been a gift from Steward Cirion to Eorl to mark the first anniversary of his gifting the Calenardhon to the Riders of the Mark in reward and gratitude for their bravery in answering Gondor's call for help and defending the Southern Kingdom. The king's own tankard was crafted with the white horse emblem and adorned with emeralds. The tankards had resided with the ruling house ever since and were now only used on state occasions.

Worth a small fortune, Éomer would gladly have sold or traded the tankards – tradition or no – to feed his people, but money was not the issue. The problem was that food was in short supply due to the length and destructive power of the war. The tankards held only sentimental value to the Lords of the Mark, for money and possessions were of little use to the Horse Lords.

When all of the men had been served, the ladies withdrew to the kitchens to continue preparations for the feast to be held later in the evening. To allow the king and the marshals privacy, the golden hall had been cleared of all except those in attendance at the meeting, the doorwards, and, of course, the king's personal guard.

After a moment, Éomer rose and hefted his tankard. The marshals quickly came to their feet to match the movement.

"Let us begin by honoring those of our group who are absent from us. Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor ('Théoden,' repeated the group); Théodred, Second Marshal of the Mark, fallen at the Fords of Isen ('Théodred'); Grimbold, Marshal of Grimslade, fallen at the Pelennor ('Grimbold'); Dúnhere, Lord of Harrowdale, fallen at the Pelennor ('Dúnhere'); Déorwine, Chief of the Knights of Théoden, fallen at the Pelennor ('Déorwine'); and Guthláf, proud banner bearer of Théoden King, fallen at the Pelennor ('Guthláf'). May they be welcomed into the halls of their fathers with honor; may their names be forever remembered and cherished in the Mark; and may the Simbelmynë grow abundantly over them until we are joined with them again. Hail the victorious dead!"

"Hail!"

As the marshals took their seats, Éomer sat down his tankard and moved to stand behind his chair. He found it difficult to sit throughout an entire meeting such as this and much favored being able to move around the table and even pace when the conversation warranted it. He decided to begin by formally recognizing the marshals, new and old.

"Marshal Erkenbrand of the West Mark is on an official errand for me. Accompanying him is the Gamling, who I have named to be the Chief of Knights. Marshal Grimborn is replacing his father as the Marshal of Grimslade. Marshal Elfhelm of the East Mark will now be working with Marshal Ceorl of the Eastemnet."

"You are a most welcome addition, Ceorl," said Elfhelm, reaching over to grasp the hand of Ceorl. "With so many of our people moving about the vast plains of the Eastemnet, security for them has always been a problem."

Éomer continued after Ceorl had nodded his acknowledgement to Elfhelm.

"I recognize Marshal Brandhelm of The Wold. Welcome to Edoras, my old friend."

"Thank you, my lord," responded Brandhelm.

"Squirming at his seat there," continued Éomer, "is Marshal Liam, my former lieutenant, whom I have named as the Marshal of the Westemnet, and of course, Marshal Fingol, the new Lord of Harrowdale.

"Where is Marshal Garoth?" asked Grimborn. "Tell me not that my father's old friend was lost as well?"

Éomer met Ceorl's eyes briefly before answering. "That question is being answered by Erkenbrand and Gamling. I expect them back in a few days. Until then, let us continue with the matters at hand. The war we just fought was long and bloody, and cost us many dear friends. What I want to hear from you now is what it has cost us in terms of our herds and our food production. Winter is upon us and I need to know how dire the situation is before I can know in which direction we need to move."

The seriousness of the king's words was matched by the looks on the faces of the marshals.

Marshal Elfhelm cleared his throat and spoke first. "As you know, Sire, Aldburg leads the Mark in food production. Our peoples are less nomadic and more given to the raising of food and livestock than in the other areas." He paused while mentally calculating the supplies over which he was in charge. "While hit hard by marauding bands, much of our food stock remains safely hidden within the cave network we established in the mountains. With some stretching it _might_ see us through the winter, providing we can move it securely throughout the mark. It should not be a problem here in Edoras or in the established villages, but for our nomadic peoples in the Westemnet, it will be more difficult."

"I will arrange for food distribution in the Westemnet," volunteered Liam. "Fingol will help me," he added, prodding his cousin in the ribs.

"We'll work out the particulars later," said Éomer. "Now, what is the situation with our herds? How many of the brood mares and foals have we lost?"

O-o-O-o-O

_Snowbourne_

Barech shuffled a bit as he removed the food from the table spread before Garoth and his underlings. Long past his prime as a rider, Barech served tables in the Marshal's house while his wife worked in the kitchens. Once proud to serve his Marshal in any way, the old man now bitterly regretted his service to ahouse long bereft of honor. Now he hated what his life had become, as he hated the men sitting at the table, feasting and laughing while so many of the men of Snowbourne languished in the prison Garoth's despicable nephew, Gilmóod, had established.

How could all of this have happened, the old man wondered as he made his way around the table, and how could he ever help them? Everything had been fine until Gilmóod and his men had arrived from Edoras in the dead of night. Things had started to fall apart after that, as more and more outcasts and evil doers sought refuge at Snowbourne. Barech moved to resume his stance against the wall until such time as he was required to serve the table again.

The massive front door of the fortress banged open, crashing against the back wall as the messenger rushed through. Everyone in the room jumped at the sound except Garoth who was, as seemed normal lately, snoozing in a stupor, his head upon the table.

"You idiot," hissed Gilmóod. "I just got my uncle to sleep. Are you trying to wake the dead?"

"Your pardon," sneered the ruffian in answer, "but I bear news that cannot wait."

"All right then," snapped Gilmóod, "deliver your news and be gone, before I gut you for your impudence."

He would, too, mused Barech. Dark of hair and features, Gilmóod, or dark man as the people thought of him, could easily have been considered comely had not his face borne all the warmth of a stone statue. It was as though there was no humanity in him, his eyes as empty of light and compassion as his black soul. Careful to control his features and reveal nothing of what he was thinking, Barech shuddered inwardly at the mention of Gilmóod "gutting" anyone, for he had seen Gilmóod's knife work before. The man was not only adept at it, he enjoyed it.

"Riders approach. They bear the standard of the Royal House."

"How many?" questioned the beefy man to Gilmóod's left. Scar man is what Barech called him, in private of course, for the man had a hideous scar running the length of his face on the left. The deformity seemed to have warped his features into a permanent sneer and his looks were only accented by the meanness with which he treated everyone, except Gilmóod.

"Under a dozen," responded the messenger. "They should be here in less than a day."

"Under a dozen," repeated Gilmóod. He looked at the men around the table and smiled his cold, statue smile. "I think we should prepare a _special_ welcome for them, don't you?"

Scar man's laugh in answer sent chills down Barech's spine.


	15. Chapter 15, New Beginnings

**To the King**

**Chapter Fifteen**

**New Beginnings**

"_Rick Blaine: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." Casablanca_

Hálith took his time walking to the magnificent stables of Edoras, for Anor was kissing the earth with a breath of warmth unusual for the late autumn, and it was as though all the people of Edoras had ventured outside to enjoy its last embrace before the chill winds once more asserted themselves. Excitement showed in his eyes, belying his easy gait, for today he would begin working and training with Hammok the new farrier.

Had this been Gondor, Hálith would never have been able to learn this trade, for the trade guilds of Minis Tirith required money to buy one's way into the coveted unions, and therefore the skill positions went to the sons of those who could afford to grease a few palms. In a land that lived and died by their horses, the skill was learned by many, though few ever would acquire the honor of working in the king's own stables, and that is what had Hálith so excited.

His goal, of course, was to ride in an éored, perhaps rising one day to serve in the king's guard, as his father had. Hálith's face clouded as he thought of Háma. He had died honorably, protecting the king and the people fleeing to Helm's Deep, and Hálith missed him terribly…missed the quiet evenings in their little house when Háma would tell him stories as they sat before the fire.

The boy had not been unhappy in the months that he served as a wain driver and lived in the barracks, but he had been lonely. Once Gondor called for aid and the éoreds had mustered, the defense of the city had fallen on the few men and boys who remained in the city…the wain drivers, the farriers, the old, the young. The great gates to the city had been barred, and Hálith took his turn spending long hours on watch duty, wondering how they would ever defend the city should the enemy turn his sights against them. He would return to the barracks at night, exhausted and ready for sleep.

The one saving grace of those days had been Hildegard and coming back to the barracks to enjoy the hot meals she had provided for the defenders. Like a supreme commander, she had marshaled the women who normally served in the Meduseld, the ones whose fathers, husbands, and brothers now rode to war, and she kept them busy. They cooked for the barracks and for those in the city who could not care for themselves. They scoured the Meduseld from top to bottom, and generally did any and every job Hildegard could think of to keep their thoughts from the stark reality that most of the men would not be coming back.

Hammok walked to the door of the stables to empty a bucket of water into the gutter and spied the slender built boy walking down the hill towards him. Éomer King had approached him about taking the boy under his wing to teach him the fine art of the horse shoe, and it was something Hammok was glad to do. After all, Bergfinn had done the same for him, and those days in the cozy smithy down the hill had been some of the happiest of his life.

Shorter in stature than was usual for the Horse Lords, Hammok more than made up for it in strength and musculature. He had massive arms and shoulders from wielding hammers and working the forge, and his legs, build like tree trunks, seemed determined to keep pace. If not for his trim waist, he might have been considered boxlike in build. By far his most striking feature, however, was his white gold hair, which he wore close cropped, unlike what was normal for the Rohirrim, for he tired of fighting the sparks which flew with regularity as he worked. Framed as they were by the short hair, his cobalt hued eyes were penetrating.

Hammok emptied the bucket and sat it down. "Welcome Hálith. Are you ready to begin your training?"

"Yes, my lord," smiled Hálith.

"We'll have none of that," admonished Hammok gently. "No man is lord of a Rohirrim but our Marshals and our King, and even they earn the right. It is our way, lad. Call me Hammok. Before we've finished your training you may call me by a lot of other names as well," he finished with a chuckle.

O-o-O-o-O

Given its name, one might have thought the Snowbourne fortress of Marshal Garoth would have been located on one of the broad plains bordering the Snowbourne River, or perhaps in the wooded land into which it ran before meeting and joining with the Entwash, but it did not. The original fortress had been built in the foothills of the White Mountains…built with a commanding view of the valley below, for Snowbourne, as it had come to be known, was built to be a northern line of defense for Aldburg in the days before the capitol city had been moved to Edoras. It was not as great in height as Dunharrow, nor so steep, yet still its narrow access could be defended against vast odds.

When still part of Gondor, this area had been the site of several ore mines, but being as the Horse Lords did not mine, they had fallen into disuse. The men of Rohan had seen the defensive value of Snowbourne as its strength and established a Marshal and éored there during the reign of Eorl. It had been considered a first line of defense ever since.

Erkenbrand gauged the ascending path with a practiced eye. As an experienced Marshal, he first noticed that there was no early sentry placed. He held up his hand to halt the small company.

Gamling, who had been daydreaming in his saddle, immediately roused himself. "What is it? Why have we stopped?

"Something is not right."

Immediately the six members of the accompanying éored took up positions around their Marshal and the Chief of Knights.

Gamling scanned the hills, still somewhat confused. "I don't see anything."

Erkenbrand nodded slightly as he too scanned the hills. "That is the point. No Marshal would allow access to his fold without a challenge, even in time of peace."

"But we bear the standard of the Royal House! Surely we would not be challenged?"

Erkenbrand fixed his former lieutenant with a fierce but fond look. "You have been too long in Edoras, my friend. Have you forgotten everything I taught you?"

Gamling opened his mouth to defend himself and then closed it quickly. He _had_ been in Edoras for many years. Perhaps he had allowed his instincts to become dulled by the less rigorous service in the capitol city. He forced himself to think as he had been taught when riding the West Mark in Erkenbrand's éored. "We bear the King's standard…which is all the more reason that we should be greeted, if not challenged by an early warning sentinel."

"Exactly," concurred Erkenbrand. "We shall proceed with caution."

Erkenbrand turned to his most experienced rider. "Dageth, scout ahead…and use extreme caution. We will not be far behind should you need our aid."

Dageth nodded, "Yes, my lord." He spurred his horse and shot ahead of the group.

Erkenbrand's sorrel danced in anticipation. She was a war horse born and bred, and she could feel the tension within the group. A shiver of eagerness ran down her flanks as she set herself for battle.

The Marshal felt his mare's excitement and soothed her with a touch of his hand. "Easy, Lancer, not yet," he crooned.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer, dressed in his regular riding leathers, walked to the stables with quiet purpose. He had met with Marshal Ceorl again before offering his farewell to the man and his éored as they provided escort and protection on the way home to those who had journeyed to Edoras for the funeral and festivities. It made Edoras look almost empty after the crowds of the previous days.

As he entered the stable he noticed Hammok and Hálith working with one of the horses. One of the stable hands approached the King.

"Would you like your tack, sire?"

Deep in thought, Éomer just shook his head at the man and continued to Firefoot's stall.

Dismissed, the man turned to resume his duties.

Realizing his rudeness, Éomer stopped to look back at the stable hand. The man was already out the door, so the king sighed and walked down the center aisle towards Firefoot. He opened the door and stepped into the stall to his beloved horse, stroking his side and speaking softly to him. Firefoot bobbed his head and scented Éomer's pockets, looking for the treat he hoped would be there. Éomer chuckled lightly and pulled a carrot from his pocket to offer for his beauty.

While Firefoot chomped on the carrot, Éomer retrieved a brush from a shelf on the wall and began to brush down his horse in great, long strokes. Firefoot had already been brushed once earlier in the morning, but was not about to complain about being fussed over by his master. He actually leaned into the king as his strokes reached the horse's favorite spot, causing Éomer to grunt and shift his weight to compensate.

For his part, Éomer reveled in the task almost as much as Firefoot and worked even harder as sweat broke across his forehead. He needed this, needed the routine of what he was used to doing. This was the life he was born for, not holding meetings and settling disputes.

Finished with the brushing, the king retrieved the pick with which to check the hooves. Firefoot obediently hefted his leg and leaned again into Éomer. The great stallion was beginning to anticipate the run he knew was coming.

"All right, boy," grunted Éomer as he finished up and dropped the last leg. "Let us go." He placed the pick back onto the shelf beside the brush and a few other supplies and backed out of the stall followed closely by Firefoot. The horse hesitated just out side the stall, but Éomer continued walking. "Come on, Firefoot," he said, "no saddle today."

Horse and rider walked to the front of the stables, where Éomer jumped easily onto the back his mount. Together they cantered down the hill and out the front gate.

The guards at the gate looked uncertainly at each other after the king rode out alone.

"Should we call out the royal guard?" asked Falgor, as he followed the king with his eyes.

"It's not up to you to go telling the king that he can't ride alone, you knucklehead. If he wanted a guard, he'd take one," answered his friend and fellow sentinel. "Besides, how many years have we watched Éomer ride from this city?"

"But he weren't even armed," argued Falgor, "and he's not just a kid any more. He's our king."

"Are you going to go hiking up that hill with your sore foot?" queried Geston. "And after you get there what are you going to say? The king is practically out of sight now. They'd never catch him. Besides, there's no better rider in the Mark than the king. No enemy could catch him unaware. Just relax. We're off duty in an hour and I'm wanting my meal."

Éomer led his steed to the left of the main road and raced full out, giving a war whoop as he reveled in the freedom of the run. Éomer loved this …needed the release, and Firefoot was giving him a run to remember. The muscles of his legs worked in tandem with the great stallion as they galloped delightedly. Everything became a blur as the wind whipped against his eyes. On and on they ran, as though they might just run until the end of all time.

From the gates of Edoras, a new guard took up the watch as Falgor and Geston headed home for a much desired mug of ale. The king's presumed whereabouts were duly reported to the new guards, who were left to wonder themselves whether they should stand to or inform the royal guard of the king's solitary exit. Perhaps these days of peace would mean that the king could be allowed to ride alone…perhaps. At any rate, they reasoned, it was not theirs to decide, so they settled into the routine of watch duty and waited anxiously for their king to return.

TBC


	16. Chapter 16, Thanksgiving

**To the King**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**Thanksgiving**

_"It is the duty of all Nations to acknowledge the providence of Almighty God, to obey his will, to be grateful for his benefits, and humbly to implore his protection and favor."— George Washington, October 3, 1789_

Stepping out onto the terrace of the manor house, the one known as dark man scowled as he looked around. He wouldn't have considered it a scowl, for that was the look he always had on his face. The peasants who lived in the surrounding huts, the wives of the imprisoned horse lords…they all went about their assigned duties, which pleased him. How he enjoyed watching his own personal slave force.

Gilmóod watched as all was made ready for the "reception" of the contingent from Rohan. He observed the measures being taken to prepare the ambush. His men were experts at what they did. Squinting at the sunlight in his eyes, he pulled up short as an idea flitted into the corner of his mind. Gilmóod was not what one would call intelligent, but he was cunning and sly, both commodities well favored in a henchman. Smiling the smile that had chilled the hearts of many a decent man and woman, he gave a shrill whistle to catch Scaro's attention.

The scarred man whose face fit his name turned from what he was doing when he heard the signal from Gilmóod. Motioning his men to continue their preparations, he sprinted over to where his leader was standing on the steps of the manor house.

Known to all as the Manor of Snowbourne, the house was constructed of rough hewn logs, some rounded, some cut in half lengthwise. Two stories tall, it was a handsome house, but built to withstand the fierce winters as well as offer protection from enemies. From the upper levels, deep slits were cut into the logs so that archers could rain down death on any approaching. Not as secure nor as strong as the Hornburg, it had proven adequate for the centuries it had served as Snowbourne's fortress.

"We are almost ready. Fitch has the trail covered. Shall we attack them in the narrow or would it be your pleasure to witness the kill here?"

Gilmóod felt a rush of satisfaction as he considered the suggestion. It had been too long since he'd had the pleasure of a good kill. It was said among his men that he favored a kill to pleasuring a woman, a notion that none of them doubted.

He forced himself to close his eyes against the tingling in his loins and pushed back the red haze that sizzled just behind his eyes. He took a deep breath and gathered his wits back. No, he would delay that pleasure for now. He had a better plan.

"Scaro, call off the men. Allow the Marshals and their escort to approach. I do _not_ want them harassed, is that clear?"

Scaro barely held back the growl that came to his throat. He and his men had been promised the chance to kill these horse riders and he wanted it. "You mean to let them come here? You promised…"

Before he could complete the words Gilmóod was off the steps and had him by the throat. Scaro could feel the cold metal of Gilmóod's dagger beneath his chin.

"Do you question me," breathed Gilmóod, his eyes not three inches from those of Scaro. For several seconds only his breathing could be heard. His breath was foul in Scaro's face. All activity in the yard had ceased as the prospect of entertainment became available.

Scaro scarcely dared move so close was the blade, but he managed to shake his head enough to signal the man who literally held his life in his hands. He could barely breathe, but he managed to choke out an answer. "No, my _lord_, I do not question your orders."

Gilmóod squeezed even tighter for a moment.

Scaro began to see stars as his vision blackened and then the pressure was gone and he gasped sweet lungs full of precious air. He had to lean over, his hands on his knees as he tried to still the spasming coughs racking him.

Gilmóod spun around to glare at those who had stopped their work to witness the scene. "What are you looking at? Get back to work or I'll cut your rations even further."

Scaro had finally regained his breath and stood facing his commander. "You will receive the horse lords?"

Gilmóod smiled almost indulgently at the man. His fit of anger dissipated, he nodded his head regally. "We shall not only receive them, we shall make them our guests."

Clearly confused, Scaro narrowed his eyes as he considered his master's words.

"We wish to be at peace with our neighbors, do we not?" asked Gilmóod pleasantly. "You are too angry, my friend. We will welcome the Horse Lords to Snowbourne and hear their petition." He put his arm around Scaro's shoulders conspiratorially. He spoke softly so that only Scaro could hear. "Keep the prisoners quiet and all else acting normally. No one is to get near the horse lords but us. Is that understood? I fear my uncle is indisposed and will need to remain in his quarters."

Scaro was slow, but he was finally beginning to follow Gilmóod's train of thought. "Perfectly, my lord. All shall be done as you say." He bowed his head slightly and then remembered something his scout had reported. "Oh, one thing…Fitch reports that one of the riders is Gamling."

"Gamling?" Gilmóod's countenance darkened once more. "Well, well, this should be interesting." He seemed to consider the situation as he slowly nodded his head, before fixing Scaro with a fierce look. "You _will_ control your temper, Scaro. I am after bigger game than a Royal Guard". Gilmóod was not even aware that he had begun to rub his hands together in anticipation.

Scaro watched him for a moment before nodding his head again and leaving to deliver the message to his men to stay the ambush they had prepared.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer signaled Firefoot with his legs and the great mount slowed to a trot. Both were well lathered from their romp, pleased, invigorated, and satisfied at the same time. Éomer patted his steed's neck and the pair turned back towards Edoras.

Both had needed this run, but Éomer especially had felt the desire to throw off the trappings of leadership and freely run the plain without guards, advisors, or responsibility. He never felt more alive than when he was riding.

The bedtime story he told the children had revived many memories for him. Some of them were good memories – the faithfulness of Théoden, Théodred, and Éowyn as they had all nursed him back to health, but most of them were not good. It was bad enough to have been gored by a boar, but that pain was eclipsed by the dread and horror of the iron. Éomer still shuddered when he thought about it. Never before or since had he feared any action such as that. The scarring from the injury was aggravated by the burns which drew as they healed and necessitated the nightly oiling and stretching by his uncle.

Éomer closed his eyes as he thought back to the agony of having those scars stretched and pulled each night, but his uncle had promised him that he would ride again once they were all healed. It was his absolute faith in Théoden that had seen him through the long winter.

The king slowed Firefoot once more and the pair continued at a slow, cooling walk. Éomer allowed his mind to continue its meandering down through the halls of his memory, accepting that Béma would show him what he should take with him.

For the first time in so many years his country faced peace, faced the opportunity to grow and prosper without having to fight for every scrap of victory they could gain. There were still great problems to be over come, possible privation and loss from a hard winter and scant foodstuffs, but Éomer had never been afraid of a challenge. No, what gave him pause was the question of how well he would be able to lead in peacetime.

Peace. The word was almost foreign to him, for he had never known it. So many had been lost through the years…so many sacrifices made for that one word, and yet Éomer was not sure he even knew what it meant.

One thing he did know was how very grateful he was to have his sister here with him, if even for a short time. Éowyn was all the family he had left and embodied all for which he had suffered and bled and fought.

Éomer's breath still caught as he clearly recalled how all else in the world had stopped at moment he saw his sister seemingly dead on the Pelennor.

_The battle all but finished, he and his warriors walked the field searching for their men. The riders would see to the burial of their own, and they never left one of their own behind. Éomer's mind reeled with what he was seeing. So many lost…Marshal Grimbold, an arrow through his neck, Déorwine, cut down and hacked to pieces by orcs even after he'd died, faithful Guthláf, crushed beyond recognition by the huge feet of the Mûmakil – identifiable only by the King's Banner still clutched proudly in his hand…so many others, so many. _

_Éomer saw Gamling and several of his men standing together and started in that direction. As he arrived at their location, his heart clutched as his eyes beheld Uncle. He lay penned beneath his beloved Snowmane. So they had died together. It was fitting, Éomer felt, for they had been devoted to each other in life._

_He knelt by his uncle's body, tenderly placing his hand on his Théoden's head as he stroked the hair with his thumb. "We have prevailed, Uncle. You may rest easy. Bear my love to Théodred and tell him that his sacrifice was not in vain. Tell my parents…tell them I ever strive to make them proud."_

_Gamling put his hand on Éomer's shoulder. "He died as he would have wished, my lord. See to your éored, and let us take care of him. We will see him laid to rest in Minas Tirith until we can take him home."_

_Éomer bestowed a kiss to his uncle's forehead and rose to continue the search for the men of his éored, for that is what the Horse Lords did._

_He caught sight of blonde hair, which in and of itself was not unusual, but there was something else that caught his attention. It was the apparent softness of the hair and the familiar armor, but that was not possible… In horror his eyes kept affirming what his mind refused. Éowyn! No!_

_The raw rage and grief that surged through him came out in horrific cries that had chilled the blood of his warriors as he ran to her and sank to his knees. Éomer had believed that he'd seen too much death to ever cry again, but he was wrong. He cried, he screamed, he raged as he rocked back and forth holding Éowyn's body._

_Freezing at the sound of their commander's grief, Éomer's warriors could only stare in utter shock at the sight of Éomer unashamedly crying as he held his sister. If they had not seen it with their own eyes, none would have believed it, and rather than weakening him in their eyes, the gut wrenching cries only cemented their devotion to this man they all adored and served with honor._

Firefoot's path across the field flushed out a covey of quail and their frantic flight startled Éomer back to the present. He was somewhat surprised to find his cheeks damp and blinked several times to clear his eyes. They were close to the city now and Éomer had a sudden need to be home…to see Éowyn and the children they had brought into their home, to see Faramir, the man who would be his brother, to see Elena, the woman who was now a treasured part of his family. He laughed as he realized that he even wanted to see Hildegard and do some verbal sparring with the feisty old woman.

Spurring Firefoot back into a trot, Éomer decided right then and there that they would have a fine dinner tonight…one in which all living within the Meduseld would be welcome. Hildegard would share their thanksgiving feast with them, the children, Faramir, Elena, Berga – since Gamling was away, and especially Éowyn. His sister would be leaving him soon enough to take up residence in Minas Tirith, but he would not think of that now. This night would be for thanksgiving, for celebrating the peace that would come and for just being together.

O-o-O-o-O

"You're sure, mother?" asked Berga uncertainly. She had long ago given up hope.

"I am sure, Berga," smiled Elena, as she patted the hand of the younger woman.

"Oh!" Berga was momentarily speechless. "Oh," she repeated, her eyes tearing from sheer joy.

"Well is that all you can say?" laughed Elena. "Come we must speak to Hildegard. With your past troubles we must see that your duties are light. I am sure she will understand."

"Oh," said Berga, causing Elena to laugh again.

Taking the dreamy eyed Berga by the hand she started leading the woman from her rooms to the kitchen where they would find Hildegard overseeing the preparation for the evening meal.

Earlier in the day Faramir had taken Hálith hunting, and the pair had managed to bag a couple of wild turkeys, which were even now roasting over a spit in the kitchens. Potatoes boiled away in a kettle and Hildegard was experimenting with some new spices which Faramir had brought her. The spices were a fine gift, decided the wily cook, even if they had come from Harad. There was cinnamon, ginger, and something called cloves, and she was thinking that they would be quite tasty in a pie she was making from boiled and mashed pumpkin.

"Hildegard," called Elena. "Come, my friend, we have wonderful news!"

Hildegard raised her head from her patient measuring of spices. "News, what news?"

Berga and Elena were both smiling and crying at the same time, which in Hildegard's experience could only mean one thing.

O-o-O-o-O

The entire group was gathered in the great hall. The children were chattering with excitement at the prospect of a celebration dinner in the main hall rather than in the smaller king's dining room where they normally ate.

Gathered around the table laden with bounty, the group paused before sitting. This night they were showing respect to the traditions of Faramir and Gondor by facing West and observing a moment of silence as Faramir explained the traditional Númenórean ritual. The group then faced Éomer at the head of the table as he touched his hands to his eyes and gave thanks to Béma for the blessings of the mearas, and to Eru Ilúvatar for His gift of all life.

The blessing complete, they took their seats. Éomer could not help but feel a deep contentment as he gazed at each beloved face. Éowyn to his right was literally glowing with happiness as she smiled across the table at Faramir, who was seated on the king's left. Beside Faramir were the three little girls, with Thela, of course, right beside her Farmeer. Seated beside Éowyn was Elena. The three younger boys were situated between Elena, Hildegard, and Berga. Hálith sat at the far end of the table opposite Éomer. The boy beamed with pride at the honor, and Éomer raised his mug in toast to the boy.

As laughter and conversation filled the room, Éomer noticed that Berga seemed unusually animated and mentioned as much to Éowyn.

"Does Berga seem somewhat excited tonight?"

Éowyn glanced down the table to the woman and noticed the glow on her face. She looked back at Éomer and shrugged her shoulders slightly as she smiled her confusion to him.

"I know," said Thela self importantly. "It is a secret, but I know."

"What do you know, Thela," asked Éowyn, expecting the child to launch into one of her many make believe stories of fairies and such.

"It is a miracle," breathed Thela. "Someone made a baby with Berga. Was it you, Farmeer? I thought you were going to make a baby with Éowyn?"

That got everyone's attention as silence fell at the table.

Faramir, of course, flushed scarlet and cleared his throat. "I assure you, Miss Thela, with respects to you ma'am, he nodded to Berga, that I did not make a baby with Mistress Berga. That honor, I am certain, belongs to Gamling," he finished with a smile.

"So," laughed the king, "is it true, Berga?"

Berga began to smile and cry at the same time…again…and nodded to the King. "Yes, m'lord, it is true."

Éomer was overjoyed at the wonderful news for his friends.

"It is fitting that you share these joyous tidings with us tonight. We have all faced loss and pain these past years, yet we are here tonight blessed with bounty and tied by love and loyalty. Let us remember that the miracle of new life speaks of our future and reminds us for what we have sacrificed. It is a good day for miracles."

He hefted his mug once more, "To life!"

TBC


	17. Chapter 17, Vague Unease

**To the King!**

**Chapter Seventeen**

**Vague Unease **

_To destroy is still the strongest instinct in nature.  
- __Max Beerbohm_

Gilmóod sat back in ornately carved chair situated at the head of the long table in the main hall of the manor house, a self satisfied smile on his handsome and finely chiseled face. To a stranger, the face was fair to behold, but to those who were acquainted with the black heart beating within his chest the face held no beauty…only death. The people who knew Gilmóod for what he was did their best to avoid looking into his eyes, for they matched his heart, and held only darkness.

There was good reason for Gilmóod's pleasant attitude, for today he would take the first steps towards retribution for himself and for his family. For many centuries his kin had been proud to be part of Rohan, but no more. Now only a fire of hatred burned towards the Horse Lords and all they considered dear.

It had begun with Gilmóod's father, Gimbol. Though their mother was a Dunlending, Gimbol and his brothers Garoth and Gálmód had been reared on the Westfold. They had, however, inherited the darker features of their mother's people, a fact which set them apart and for which they hated her. They were cousins to the famed Marshal Grimbold, whose fair features and deeds of renown fairly shouted of all that was heroic and Rohirric. Garoth had ridden with Grimbold and risen to stature and favor as a Marshal himself. He was granted leadership over Snowbourne for his faithfulness in battle with Grimbold.

The other two brothers did not ever share in the accolades or achievements of their illustrious relation. In fact the familial connection was never mentioned and to this day Garoth referred to Grimbold as a dear friend.

Grimbold had cared for Garoth, but the ill favor of Garoth's brothers had slowly poisoned the relationship as Garoth was fed lies by his kin.

It was not that Grimbold would have rejected the aid and support of his distant kin, but that Gálmód and Gimbol were of questionable repute, known to be slackers who cared more for chasing skirts and downing ale than for bearing arms in the defense of Rohan. It was not their dark features, as they liked to claim, but their laziness and even worse the steak of cruelty running through them, which set them apart. Unfortunately, their sons had followed in their father's footsteps and were just as reprehensible.

One, however, had shown himself to take more after Garoth. Through hard work, the son of Gálmód had shown promise, rising so far as to serve in the king's court at Edoras. His standing reflected well on the others, or so they thought. Gilmóod had followed his cousin Gríma to Edoras and become one of his enforcers.

It was there that Gilmóod had stopped considering himself as any part of Rohan. He had learned to hate all the Horse Lords, and Éomer in particular, for he was everything that Gilmóod would never be. He represented all the qualities in which Gilmóod was so lacking: strength, honor, courage, and above all good repute – all the virtues so admired by the Horse Lords.

Gilmóod threw his mug against the fireplace, listening to it clank and clatter across the floor as he thought about Éomer. There were other virtues to be had, he told himself, such as cunning and intelligence, both of which Gilmóod felt he possessed in great quantity. Ah yes, he thought. I shall show you my qualities Éomer, pretender king of Rohan.

It was also while at Edoras that Gilmóod had fallen in love with Éowyn. Like his cousin, his eyes were full of favor when they beheld the golden haired beauty, though he dared not allow Gríma to know as much. Gríma was always jealous of Gilmóod's good looks and so the man had learned to hold his own council where women and Gríma were concerned.

But Éowyn would have nothing to do with either one of them, and worse yet Éomer had noticed the looks Gilmóod sent in Éowyn's direction and had explained rather forcefully just exactly what he would do should Gilmóod ever dare to lay a finger on her.

Gilmóod had relished his time of power while he served Gríma, never more so than the day that he had helped to cast Éomer from Rohan. Gilmóod was the one who had driven his fist into the defenseless man's stomach as he was being held. Oh, that memory brought a flush of pleasure to the man and his desire to inflict more punishment was fueled as he imagined driving his dagger into the soft belly of his nemesis. Then, _sweet_ Éowyn, then he would show her what her denial of him would cost her, for he would make her his own, and then her life would be a daily punishment for all the sins of rejection ever placed on him.

No, Gilmóod corrected himself, first Éomer would watch him take his beloved sister, Éowyn, and then, perhaps, he would kill the king.

O-o-O-o-O

Scaro rode down the trail whistling a merry tune. The nonchalance was a show, of course, meant to put the lead scout at ease. But Dageth had not been Marshal Erkenbrand's lead scout for ten years for nothing. All too aware that his Marshal and the Chief of Knights trailed him with all too few riders to watch their backs, he was all the more cautious.

Hearing the whistling man's approach, Dageth pulled up on his horse and waited. Within moment he could see the rider who was casually riding down the sloping trail towards him. Dageth's eyes scanned the hillside around him. He was upon a narrow path with sides of rock rising sharply on either side of him. It would be a perfect place for an ambush.

"Come forward, friend, and identify yourself," called Scaro, pretending to have just spotted Dageth.

"Where are the sentinels of Snowbourne and why has no welcome been sent for the Marshal's bearing the Royal Emblem?" challenged Dageth.

"Sentinels?" questioned Scaro. "We have no need of sentinels; we are at peace! Come, friend, and meet my master. We shall send forth a greeting for your Marshals if you like, but first come with me."

Dageth, nodded his agreement and moved to follow the scarred man. A vague unease lay deep within the scout's belly, but as yet he had nothing solid with which to give credence to the disquiet he felt. For now he would attend the scarred one.

Presently the pair reached the Snowbourne Fortress. All seemed to be normal so far as Dageth could see. There was a marked lack of activity around the Manor House, but that might just mean that the inhabitants were all attending their midday meal. Like Scaro, he dismounted, though rather than hand over the reins of his horse to a waiting stable hand, he led his mount over to the side of the front steps. The horse was well trained enough to remain where his master put him and Dageth preferred to be able to leave quickly if the need arose. Something still did not seem altogether normal about this entire situation.

Scaro led the scout up the steep steps and across the terrace to theentry way. He opened the large oak door and stepped back to allow the man to enter before him. He kept the lopsided smile plastered on his face. It actually was more of a sneer because of the scarring, but it was the best he could do. Scaro was not a man who normally would smile much anyway.

Gareth stepped into the great hall of the manor house and paused as Scaro walked past him. A huge fire place dominated one wall and the hall was empty save for an old man standing against the far wall and a younger man seated at the large table towards the back of the room. The old man was probably a server, Gareth surmised, and the younger man was definitely not Marshal Garoth. He watched as the scarred man stepped up to the table and spoke softly to the one seated at its head.

Gilmóod stood from his seat and motioned the scout forward. "Welcome to Snowbourne. Scaro tells me that you are an advance scout for a party bearing the Royal Standard."

"I am," Dageth replied. "I am Dageth, scout to Marshal Erkenbrand. He, Chief of Knights Gamling, and a small troop are following. Shall they be welcomed?"

"Chief of Knights Gamling?" asked Gilmóod, feigning ignorance, for his spy in Edoras kept him well informed. "I thought Déorwine was Chief of Knights?"

Dageth stiffened slightly. It had not escaped his notice that his "host" had failed to identify himself. "I regret to inform my lord that Déorwine was lost in the war."

"Lost in the war, you say?" murmured Gilmóod, who thought it made a nice touch. "How very sad… As you see, we are somewhat out of touch here. Come, sit, I will send a welcome for Erkenbrand and…and…."

"Gamling," supplied Gareth. "And thank you, my lord, but no. I prefer to ride back to my Marshal and lead him in myself."

"Very well, very well," effused Gilmóod. "I shall have food and drink prepared for their arrival."

He clapped his hands loudly. "Barech, see to it!"

From his post against the wall Barech bowed slightly. "Yes, my lord." His eyes met those of the young scout and he tried with all his might to convey the seriousness of the situation through that look. He dared not do more.

O-o-O-o-O

Marshals Ceorl and Liam rode at a leisurely pace. For several days they had been canvassing the Eastemnet while they checked on the status of the mares and foals. One of the main breeding stations for the Mark was located in the Eastement and it was to this location that they now journeyed.

The pair traveled with just a dozen of Ceorl's éored as they rode across the rolling plain at an easy pace. It was just past noonday and the group was eagerly anticipating a hot midday repast in the home of the station's Master Breeder, whose wife was known far and wide as an excellent cook as well as quite possibly the most comely woman in the Estemnet.

It was Liam, the younger Marshal that first spotted the smoke. "Look there, Ceorl. That's a lot of smoke for camp fires."

Ceorl frowned as he followed Liam's lead. Sure enough, thick black smoke was beginning to billow over a rise in the distance, and Liam was correct, it was far too much for just a camp fire. Unfortunately, he felt that he knew exactly what it was, but he'd thought he'd seen the last of these fires with the end of the war. Ceorl nudged his mount into a gallop. "To me!"

The éored immediately shifted into an attack wedge with their Marshal in the lead. Liam was tucked in just behind and to the side of Ceorl.

Finally topping the last ridge, their worst fears were realized as the scene of devastation was displayed before them.

Ceorl held up his arm, motioning for the troop to slow from its headlong gallop, for it was painfully obvious that they were too late to help any living soul.

The huge stable beside the home of the Master Breeder was now fully engulfed in the flames, and the house was smoldering. Here and there around the yards and paddocks bodies could be seen. Most had been horribly butchered. It was obvious even from this distance.

"Orcs," said the young rider to Liam's right, "but how is that possible?"

"Would you look at that," breathed Liam, unable to fully grasp what he was seeing as they rode closer.

The view had been blocked by the smoke pouring from the barn, but as the éored neared, an unbelievable sight met their eyes. Stacked into a vast mound were the slaughtered horses of the station. All of the studs, mares and foals for half the Eastemnet lay slaughtered and discarded in one horrific pile of blood and prime horse flesh.

"I…I don't believe it," stammered Ceorl. It took several deep gulps of breath of calm his stomach and preserve his dignity before his éored. Once he'd composed himself, he nodded to Agar, his lead tracker, who peeled off and began scouting for signs of the retreating marauders.

Ceorl turned back to the remainder of the éored. "Let's see to the bodies, lads. We'll burn the horses and bury the people."

"Burn them?" breathed Liam, not believing what he heard. "Burn the Mearas herd?" The very thought seemed a sacrilege.

"Burn them," said Ceorl, his voice soft but deadly. "It would take too long to bury them, and I _want_ to find the ones who did this. I _will_ find them. But first we must send a message to the King."

TBC


	18. Chapter 18, Patience & Panic

**To the King!**

**Chapter Eighteen**

**Patience and Panic**

"_We have to distrust each other. It is our only defense against betrayal." T__ennessee Williams_

"Here, Éowyn, place your hands this way," instructed Elena, "and then move gently down the length feeling for any deformity."

Her brow knit in concentration, Éowyn's smooth, young hands followed Elena's gnarled ones down the length of Meela's leg, sending the little girl into a fit of giggles.

Bouncing on the bed nearby, Thela watched the entire procedure with great interest. "When is it my turn to play patient?"

"Soon darling," replied Éowyn distractedly. Once more she followed the ancient hands down Meela's leg, imagining the bone beneath her touch and allowing her fingers to learn the feel of properly aligned bones.

"Very good, child," praised Elena. "You will make a wonderful healer!"

Éowyn blushed slightly at the unexpected praise and blessed Elena with one of her beautiful smiles.

"When did you become interested in the art of healing?" questioned the old woman. "All I ever remember you doing was following your brother around with a sword in your hands."

Éowyn chuckled at the memory these words evoked. "All I ever wanted to do as a girl was to follow Éomer to war and fight orcs." Her face clouded slightly at the images her memory replayed of the Pelennor.

Elena, too, saw the change in her demeanor and led the woman over to sit on the bed. "Thela, would you and Meela go and ask Hildegard to send Miss Éowyn some tea? I am sure that she could find some seed cakes for the two of you as well."

"Seed cakes!" shouted Thela, with a huge smile. "Come on, Meela, let's go ask for Eowyn's tea and get some cake! We can find Márta too. She loves seed cake almost as much as I do."

Meela scooted off the table onto the chair and down to the floor so that she could follow Thela towards the kitchens of the Meduseld.

"There now," soothed Elena. "Now that we've a bit of privacy and quiet, why don't you tell old Elena what has so darkened that sweet face of yours?"

Elena simply patted the younger woman's hand as she patiently waited for her to gather her thoughts.

"It wasn't like I expected it to be…battle that is," began Éowyn, so softly that Elena had to lean closer to her to catch all the words. "It did things to me…marked me in ways that will never go away." She stopped talking for a moment as her mind recalled images that she had hoped would never surface. "When I was in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith, I watched the healers as they brought comfort and care to the wounded. I was the recipient of that same skill and compassion, and I decided that I wanted to learn how to do those things…how to save life as well as take it."

"Healing is a noble art, my lady," replied Elena. "As a child I lived in the Wold, where there were few healers. My mother was the only healer I ever knew growing up. She taught me and I shall teach you."

Éowyn smiled at the woman's words. "Thank you, Elena, but are you sure I can learn?"

"Oh yes," smiled Elena with shining eyes, "you can learn, for I am a very good teacher."

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth escorted the small contingent containing his Marshal and the Chief of Knights Gamling to the front of the Snowbourne fortress. Gone were the people who had been seen earlier going about their daily business and the fact registered by the tingling Dageth felt in the small of his back. Red headed with guileless blue eyes and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, the scout looked far younger than his years as he glanced over at his Marshal.

The Rohirric mounts picked up on the man's anxiety and bristled with tension, their flanks shivering with the anticipation of action. These great war horses were trained to defend their rider and would never leave him should he be dislodged in battle, but instead would protect their warrior to the best of their ability. In truth, the Rohirric horses were almost as deadly a foe as their riders, for their large iron shod hooves could mete out death and destruction with ease.

Erkenbrand dismounted from his sorrel and soothed her with a pat of his hand. "Shush," he crooned softly as he stroked her muscular sides. "Easy Lancer, we've no battle to fight…yet." His eyes looked across his saddle to meet those clear blue ones of Dageth.

"You feel it too then," said the young scout.

"Aye," confirmed the wily Erkenbrand. "For now stay with the horses."

"What is it?" asked Gamling, glancing from one to the other.

"Probably nothing," replied Erkenbrand blandly, "just a niggling at the nape of my neck." Then he chuckled to himself. "I have spent my entire life at war, my friend. Perhaps I simply see shadows where none exist."

"Let's get this over with," sighed Gamling, "and get back to Edoras. In case you have forgotten, the king is not a patient man."

"No," agreed Erkenbrand wryly, "I have not forgotten. How many times did he attempt to stow away in my éored? Ten, was it?"

"Eleven, I think," smiled Gamling fondly at the memory. "It was only your fury that last time, coupled with Théoden's guidance that dissuaded him from trying again."

Flanked by their escort, the pair climbed the steep steps to the manor house. The afternoon sun was warming the day nicely, though the wind still held a bite. The shadows of the surrounding mountains were beginning to cast long, deep shadows across the landscape.

Scaro waited on the terrace by the large oak door. He frowned as he noticed Dageth waiting with the horses, but quickly recovered to offer a welcoming nod to the Marshals. He opened the door and motioned for the men to precede him.

Erkenbrand, Gamling and the other five guards entered the vast room, their eyes immediately taking in the surroundings as Dageth's had earlier. Unlike earlier, twenty or so men stood around the perimeter of the room. That in and of itself did not raise concern, but there was a certain _roughness_ to their demeanor that, at the very least, lent itself as something of which to take note. A huge fire burned cheerfully in the fireplace, belying the malevolence which seemed to permeate the room.

At the far end, Gilmóod stood regally from his chair. "Welcome to Snowbourne." He smiled and beckoned the small group forward. The table before him was spread with an abundant supply of succulent smelling foods and Gamling felt his stomach rumble at the pleasing aromas.

Erkenbrand in the lead, the group walked down the center of the room until they were at the end of the table opposite Gilmóod. Scaro followed them at a discrete distance.

"On the king's business, we seek Marshal Garoth," said Erkenbrand formally.

The smile on Gilmóod's face dimmed fractionally, but he forced his voice to remain neutral, masking the fury he felt at the mention of the king. "My uncle has taken ill…a stroke I believe. He is unable to communicate well or leave his bed."

Erkenbrand's eyes narrowed at the news. It was somewhat convenient, given the reason for their presence.

"You!" blurted Gamling as he finally pieced together where he had seen this man before.

"Seize them," ordered Gilmóod, and the cadre of thugs around the perimeter of the room jumped to do his bidding.

The Rohirric warriors all had their daggers drawn. They would not go down without a fight. The seven men formed a tight circle where each could defend the other's back.

From outside, Dageth heard his Marshal's bellow of rage. For a split second his instinct was to charge inside, but his training and better sense took over and he leapt onto the back of his horse.

"Get the one outside," hissed Scaro as he fought with one of the Rohirric warriors.

Immediately one of the ruffians rushed to the door. From the terrace he took aim with his bow. He loosed the arrow which flew swift and true towards the back of the fleeing man with deadly accuracy.

Dageth felt the arrow pierce his back like the blow of an anvil. The force knocked him forward onto the neck of his steed. Impossibly the young warrior managed to stay mounted. As his consciousness fled his last thought was regret that he had failed to protect his marshal.

TBC

A/N: I apologize for the brevity of this chapter, but a particularly difficult case of bronchitis has kept me sidelined for a bit. I want to assure you, however, that I have not lost interest in this story, and I hope that you have not lost interest either. I will do my best as I recover to be more consistent with updates.

Merry Christmas and may the blessings of the season be with you.


	19. Chapter 19, Hamm

To The King

Chapter Nineteen

Hamm

"_Individual commitment to a group effort – that is what makes a team work, a company work, a society work, a civilization work." Vince Lombardi_

Chaos ensued. Erkenbrand fought like a wild man. He was furious at himself for falling into a trap, and the anger lent him strength. A powerful man to begin with, the Marshal was nearly unbeatable when fueled by adrenalin. For twenty years he had ridden the Westfold as Marshal and he called upon all the experience he had gained now. He bashed two heads together and turned towards the third man diving at him. To his left he could see that Gamling was down. Whether the man was dead or not, Erkenbrand was unable to ascertain.

As he circled his foe, eyes darted around the room assessing the number of attackers and any possible means of escape. Only three of the original seven were still standing and the odds did not favor them, but Erkenbrand would make these brigands pay dearly so long as there was breath in his body. The man he was facing off against charged and the Marshal grabbed his shoulders while driving his knee into the man's unprotected groin. He shoved the howling man back against the laden table sending it crashing to the floor, and immediately spun to face the next foe.

Beside him, young Fegorel positioned himself so that the two men were back to back, doubling their defensive capability. The numbers were just too large to overcome however, and the pair was experienced enough to recognize that fact.

Gilmóod growled as the food, flasks, and dishes scattered across the floor. He was enjoying the fight, but hated to see his food destroyed. Gilmóod rather enjoyed his comforts and was not one to deny himself anything now that he'd had a taste of power.

"Barech," he bellowed over the din of the fight, "more ale!" By all the gods, he was enjoying this! He strutted over to where Gamling lay unconscious on the floor, dodging the fighting men as he went. Gilmóod took his boot and tilted Gamling's head over so that he could see the man clearly. With a sneer he kicked the downed man in the stomach a couple of times before sauntering over to the side of the room. No need getting his hands dirty when his men could easily take care of this lot.

Erkenbrand and Fegorel witnessed the attack on the unconscious Gamling and growled in frustration. Besieged as they were, neither man could protect the downed man.

Barech rushed into the kitchen. His wife met him inside the door.

"What is it?" cried Margeth as she rushed towards her husband. A look of fear crossed her face as another crash resounded from the main room.

"It is the delegation from Edoras. That filth is taking them prisoner…just like all the others." Despair filled his ancient eyes as he gazed at his wife.

"No, husband, you must not give up hope. It is all we have left."

"The king must believe that we turned our backs on Théoden when the call came to gather at Helm's Deep. What will he now think when his Marshals fail to return? All is lost," Barech said softly.

His tiny wife raised her chin, forcing a confidence into her voice that she did not believe. "Éomer King will not desert us."

The pleading that she did not even realize was in her voice reached his heart and Barech gathered his wife into his arms, taking a precious moment to comfort her as more shouts and crashes could be heard. The woman's shoulders shook slightly. "No, the king will not desert us. It is all right, my love. We will find a way. Help will come."

He gently bestowed a kiss to her forehead and then rushed to gather more ale for Gilmóod. The dark one did not like to be kept waiting and punishment could easily be doled out for anyone raising his ire.

By the time Barech returned with the ale, the fight was finished.

"How dare you!" hissed Erkenbrand from where he was being held between two huge men. Panting heavily, the thugs were literally supporting the Marshal's weight between them, so battered was he. Blood flowed from all three of them. Erkenbrand had a deep cut over his eye and swelling of the area was already beginning to obstruct his vision. "The king will have your head for this outrage!"

"The king?" questioned Gilmóod blandly. "The same king who did nothing when I took over this little outpost? Oh, I forget," he snarled. "He wasn't king then was he? No, that pathetic, doddering old man was king, and he did nothing either."

"You traitor!" roared Erkenbrand. "You and your kind are not fit to wipe Théoden's boots, or Éomer's! They are sons of Eorl! What are you, scum?"

Gilmóod was furious at the question. Mentally he cursed his father for ever taking a bride from Dunland. Obviously there was no way that his bloodline could compete with the line of Eorl. He forced himself to laugh. He would not give Erkenbrand the pleasure of knowing that he had pricked Gilmóod's pride. "Take his ring. Cut off his finger if you have to. I want his seal on this message for Edoras."

Erkenbrand struggled with all his might, and in the end, Scaro took the hilt of his dagger and knocked the Marshal senseless so that he could more easily remove the ring. Each Marshal of the Mark wore a ring specially crafted for him, and Erkenbrand's would be easily recognizable to any in the king's household.

O-o-O-o-O

_Edoras_

Hammock was intent upon his work, but he spared a glance over to where Hálith was rotating the horseshoes in the fires of the forge. The pair was working in a small building behind the stables where Hammock had set up a forge for himself.

"Turn them a bit more often, Hálith. You want to keep the temperature even." He smiled as the boy jumped to grab the pinchers and turn the horseshoes. They burned red hot, and brilliant sparks leapt up each time he turned one of them over. The boy felt clumsy in the heavy leather gloves, but they were necessary to protect his arms from the embers.

"Why do you not simply use the horse shoes made in Bergfinn's shop?"

Hammock smiled as he hammered away at the superheated metal. "I did at first," he acknowledged. Setting the rounding hammer aside, he hefted the curved metal and gauged its evenness with a practiced eye. Stepping over to the barrel, he plunged the heated horse shoe into the cold water sending a spray of steam into the air between him and the boy before continuing his thought.

"I found that I preferred to custom make the shoes for the mounts of the Royal family. Their horses are all of pure Mearas stock and therefore require more exact shoes than the regular horses or the half-breeds. For one thing, their hooves are larger than the others, do you see?"

Hálith nodded his head as he concentrated on turning the heated metal evenly. "Hamm, why do you put the completed shoe into the water when it is still so hot? Does it not stress the metal? Wouldn't it be safer to let the horse shoes cool on racks?"

Hammock smiled at Hálith, his tanned face showing the effects of many laugh lines around his cobalt eyes, and playfully used his knuckles to make a knocking motion on the boy's head. "You are using your mind now Hálith. I like that. You ask a good question – one that generations of new farriers and blacksmiths before us asked."

Hálith unconsciously puffed up his chest at the praise of his mentor. He had resisted learning the trade at first because his dream was still to be a warrior, a member of the king's own éored, but now he found himself becoming more and more interested in the skills he was being taught by the quiet man with the white-gold hair and the startling eyes.

"The concept of rapidly cooling the metal first came to us from the deserts of Harad," continued Hammock.

"Harad?" snorted Hálith, before turning to show his disdain by spitting on the ground.

Hammock was greatly amused at the show of bravado from the boy. "They are fine warriors, Hálith. You would do well not to underestimate them."

"What would you know about warriors?" asked Hálith before he realized what he was saying. He quickly ducked his head and reddened at the implied insult to his mentor. The boy bit his lip and dared to glance up to meet the eyes of Hammock expecting to see censure. What he saw there was humor, and that confused him.

"I'm sorry, Hamm. I shouldn't have said that," stammered Hálith.

"I have not always been a farrier, Hálith. But you are young, and the young often judge by what they first see. We were speaking of Harad, I believe."

Hálith nodded, shame still coloring his smooth cheeks.

"It was the blacksmiths of Harad that first developed the technique of quick cooling the metal to give it strength, though they perfected it for their swords and not their horseshoes." Hamm frowned and shook his head slightly. "They would thrust the heated swords into the bodies of their slaves or prisoners to cool and strengthen them."

Hálith gasped at that information. "That's…sickening."

"Yes," agreed Hamm, "thankfully we have found less barbaric ways to cool our metal. Remember, Hálith, just because a man is cruel or barbarous does not mean that he cannot think or be innovative. Never underestimate your enemy," he cautioned again.

Hálith stared at Hamm in wonder. The farrier nodded to the forge and Halith jumped to turn the horseshoes.

"How come you to know so much about Harad?" asked Hálith as he worked.

When Hamm did not answer, the boy risked a quick glance over his shoulder and found the man staring at the wall. "Hamm, are you unwell?"

The farrier had a far away look on his face. "What?" Hamm shook his head to dispel the memories and smiled once again at his young charge. Well, what did he expect? He had, after all, broached the subject himself. "I spent three years in Harad, Hálith."

"Oh," replied the boy, somewhat disappointed at the brevity of the response. He had hoped to hear a great tale of valor and battle.

Hamm sat back on an overturned barrel and fixed his eyes on Hálith. "I supposed you deserve to hear it all," he said almost to himself. He sat quietly for a few moments before beginning. "My father was a merchant from Gondor. He met and married my mother when he was rather young and because she could not bear to leave the Mark, settled in Rohan. We traveled quite frequently so that he could peddle his wares."

His visage darkened as he continued the story. "One day we were attacked by warriors from Harad." He shook his head violently, "No, they were not warriors – not in the sense that we know warriors to be – for they were naught but butchers."

Hálith's eyes were wide and his young mouth hung open as he looked at Hamm. Never in his wildest imaginings did he expect to hear what he was hearing. He had to force himself to methodically turn the heating horseshoes with the large pinchers he held.

"My father and the other men traveling with us were burned alive," Hammock said softly, oblivious to the horrified look on Halith's face. "My mother…" he caught himself before he could repeat the vile fate suffered by his sweet mother. His charge was, after all, still young and innocent. "My mother died too," he said simply. "I was taken as a slave."

Hálith gulped and swallowed noisily, as though trying to calm his stomach. "A slave?" he breathed to himself, hardly able to comprehend what that must have been like. "How did you get back?"

Hamm smiled again as he thought back. "It was a stroke of good fortune actually. My master had taken me north with him…to tend to his _comforts_ at night. He was intent upon raiding in Southern Gondor, but he ran into the new, young Captain General of Gondor himself…Lord Boromir. It must have been one of his first excursions, so young was he. Aye, he was a sight to behold, I can tell you that," mused the farrier.

Hammock ran his hands through his short hair and stretched the muscles in his neck. "I must be boring you with my ancient history."

"No," exclaimed Hálith. "I mean, please tell me. How did you ever get home?"

"Prince Théodred," said Hamm. "He and the Captain General were fast friends. After Lord Boromir destroyed the Harad raiders and rescued me, he took me back to Gondor. He even paid the farrier's guild the money so that I might begin training there," he said in wonder. He turned to look at Hálith. "Can you imagine…for me, a simple slave from Harad." He shook his head as though he could still not comprehend the kindness shown him.

"He must have been a great man,"declared Hálith.

"Aye, he was," nodded Hammock, "and kind. He had a way about him that put you at ease. He never acted like he was the son of the Steward or expected different treatment. He also had a wicked humor that one did." Hamm laughed softly to himself, as though remembering some funny incident from those days. "I can still hear his laughter in my head."

"Lord Boromir was Faramir's brother, wasn't he?" asked Hálith. "I can believe he was a good man from knowing Faramir," he added shyly.

"Yes," sighed Hamm. "They were brothers. I never met the Lord Faramir until he came here though. I lived there for only a few months before the Prince came to visit the Captain General. Once Prince Théodred learned of my presence, he offered to bring me back to Rohan. Even though we traveled so much during my youth, I missed the Mark something fierce. It's not in my blood to live in the stone city."

The pair was quiet for while as Hálith tended the horseshoes, passing them over to Hammock to hammer and shape once they were heated properly. While they worked, Hálith mulled over all that he had learned about Hamm.

"Hamm," he asked haltingly, not wanting to insult his friend, but really needing to know. "Did you ever want to be more…more than a farrier?"

Hamm smiled at the boy, easily reading the earnest emotions written on his face. He placed his palms on either side of Hálith's face. "Do not fear, young one, you have not offended me. You want to know if I ever wanted to be a warrior…to distinguish myself in battle and come home covered in glory?"

Hálith nodded shyly. "And…did you ever want to go back to Harad…to fight the ones who killed your parents?"

Hammock sat back on the barrel, his massive arms folded across his chest. "Yes, I did. At one time I wanted to go back and kill them all…to fight until the pain went away or until I could not hear my Mama's screams in my head any more." His voice trailed off for a moment as a deeply saddened look crossed his face. "But then I met a very wise man….a couple of them actually."

"Lord Boromir and Prince Théodred?" asked Hálith.

"No," said Hammock thoughtfully, "though they were certainly wise men. I am speaking of Bergfinn and Felor."

"The smithy and the cripple?" laughed Hálith disbelievingly.

"Yes," nodded Hamm, before fixing his charge with a stern look. "You are judging by the outside again, young one."

Hálith had the good grace to duck his head under the gentle rebuke. "What did they teach you?"

"They taught me that each of us has value and worth…that the warriors could not protect us properly if they did not have the weapons that Bergfinn makes…or if the shoes for their mounts were not properly fitted. Someone must feed the army, lad, and transport the supplies for their encampment. You've driven the wains, Hálith, you know how difficult it can be, yet Felor learned to do it with ought but one leg. We all have an important role to play, and the warriors would be the first to admit it."

"I never thought of it that way," admitted Hálith.

"The éoreds receive the accolades of the people, and they richly deserve those accolades for the sacrifices they make for us all, but those of us who support the éoreds receive a richer reward…the appreciation of the warriors themselves. I would rather have the praises of the warriors than of the people."

Steams rose again as Hamm dipped the last of the horse shoes into the cooler. "We are finished for today, Hálith. I'm sure you're hungry. Go on back to the Meduseld, I will clean up."

"No, thank you," said Hálith. He smiled shyly. "I would like to help you, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind. In fact, I would like it very much. And when we're finished we can walk down to Bergfinn's smithy. I bet you didn't' know that his wife makes the best apple tarts in all the Mark, and I've been smelling them all afternoon," he added conspiratorially. "You do like apple tarts, don't you?"

A huge smile lit Hálith's face. "I sure do!"

"Then come on. No one tells better stories than Bergfinn."

TBC

My sincere thanks to Nienor Niniel for catching some typos. I have corrected them and reposted the chapter.

See disclaimers on Chapter One.

I would be remiss if I did not mention once again that the character of Bergfinn is the creation of Katzilla and it is through her kind permission that I borrow him for this tale. If you have not read her latest story, Untold Tales of the Mark, the Banishment of Eomer, please do yourself a favor and check it out. It is a wonderful work!

I would also like to give my sincere appreciation to all who are following this story. If you have thoughts, ideas, or scenes you would like to see, feel free to suggest them.


	20. Chapter 20, The Attitude of Honor

To the King

Chapter Twenty

The Attitude of Honor

"_I would prefer even to fail with honor than to win by cheating."  
_- Sophocles

As he always did, Faramir marveled as he walked into the royal stables at Edoras. Never had he seen a stable so beautifully wrought and designed. How like the Rohirrim to lavish such care on the abode of their beloved mounts. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes time to adjust to the dimmer light, for the sun outside was extremely bright this afternoon. As his eyes adjusted, Faramir admired the stabled horses, awed at the quality of horseflesh arrayed before him. No horses in Middle Earth were better than these, nor more lovingly tended…each loved almost as much as dear child by their riders.

From the back of the stables Faramir could hear grunting and soft talking so he followed those sounds. He found Hammock using a hoof pick on Firefoot, grunting as the brute leaned against him. Faramir could not help but smile at the one sided berating going on.

"You care a great deal for him, don't you?" he asked, his eyes twinkling in mirth.

Hammock started slightly and met his eyes, embarrassment showing at being caught cursing at the king's mount. "Forgive me, my lord…"

"No," Faramir hastened to interrupt, "forgive me for interrupting you. I was simply amused at the relationship you seem to have with Firefoot. I did not mean to disturb your work."

Hammock finished his task and dropped Firefoot's hoof. He patted the gray on the flank and stepped out of the stall. "No interruption, my lord. Is there something I can do for you…prepare a mount perhaps?"

"No, no," said Faramir, staring at the man from under his fox colored lashes…suddenly insecure. "I came because Hálith told me that you knew my brother."

"Lord Boromir saved my life, my lord. I owe him everything."

"I never heard this," marveled Faramir. "Hammock, your name is Hammock is it not?"

"Yes, my lord," murmured the farrier. Though uncomfortable to be in the company of the Steward of Gondor, Hammock sensed the kindness as well as the unease in the man before him. "Would you like for me to tell you what I remember of him, my lord?"

Faramir's eyes lit up. "Oh yes, Hammock. If you would I would be most appreciative, and please call me Faramir. Forget my title and just talk to me as a man who is hungry to hear a story about his brother. Boromir always said that if a man lived for the past he would lose the present, but I was still young when Boromir assumed command as Captain General and I know little of his early exploits. Hálith said that Boromir freed you?"

"Yes, my lord…I mean, Faramir, he freed me from slavery." Slowly Hammock began to tell the story. For his part, Faramir listened with rapt attention, longing to hear a story that would help him to once again feel connected to Boromir. For over an hour the man told his story, interrupted often by the Steward with questions about the Captain General. Hammock could see how desperate the young man was to hear this unknown tale of his brother's kindness.

"He took me under his wing," finished Hammock, "made me feel human once again. That gift I can never repay, except now perhaps to his brother."

"That was Boromir," said Faramir softly, almost dreamily. "He always fought for the oppressed. I was just five when our mother passed beyond the veil, and Boromir took it upon himself, though only ten years old, to see that I was lavished with all the love and care that he could give me." He sighed, lost in a memory that was his alone.

Presently Hammock cleared his throat. "There isn't more I can tell you. I wish there was."

Faramir met his eyes gratefully. "You have told me more than enough, Hammock, and I thank you for it." He stood and put his hand on the farrier's shoulder. "I have kept you from your work too long, but I have just one more question."

"Anything I can tell you I will be happy to do so, Lord Faramir."

"Hálith has asked me to teach him how to scout. We thought to leave in a day or two for a brief scouting foray. Would you join us?"

Hammock was momentarily rendered speechless. "You would want me to accompany you?"

"I would be honored," answered Faramir. "Please say that you will come."

Hammock smiled and nodded his head, wondering at the strange twist of fate that had so allowed the threads of his life's tapestry to become interwoven with the canvas of both Hurin brothers. "I will be glad to come."

O-o-O-o-O

He became aware of the pain first. It seemed far away in the beginning, like something that he should perhaps bother with eventually, just not yet. But like a bad tooth that you can't stop worrying with your tongue, it would not be ignored. Reluctantly, consciousness followed the niggling pain, drawing the warrior from the comforting prison of darkness where he was presently residing. A soft groan escaped his lips as the pounding in his head reached epic proportions.

Immediately Erkenbrand was by the warrior's side. "Easy, old friend," he cautioned, holding a small cup of water to the man's lips. "Sip this," he urged. The Marshal cursed at the chains hampering his movements.

Before Gamling could even get his eyes to open he was aware of Erkenbrand's voice and then the wonderfully soothing liquid dribbling down his parched throat.

The two men were manacled to the wall of a tunnel, the movement of their arms and legs severely limited. It was dark and dank where they were being held, and Erkenbrand could hear what sounded like hammering in the distance though he could not see another soul but Gamling at the moment. Blood oozed down the side of Gamling's pale face from the vicious cut in his scalp. There was also a lump on the man's head from where he'd been bashed with the hilt of a rather large knife.

"How does your head feel?" Erkenbrand asked.

"Worse than it did the day after you got me drunk for the first time in my life," mumbled Gamling. "Does that answer your question?"

"I see you have not lost your sense of humor." Erkenbrand tried to help the man sit up. "Damn these chains! I cannot use both of my arms to help you. Move slowly, Gamling, you have been dead to the world for most of a full day now."

"A full day?" Gamling marveled. "A night and a day have passed since we arrivied at Snowbourne?"

Erkenbrand nodded grimly.

Gamling used the leverage that Erkenbrand's massive arm gave him to work his way gingerly up into a sitting position. He was panting from the exertion by the time he finished. "Thank you, my friend. You have more strength in one arm than most men I know in both."

"My father ran a breeding station. I spent my youth hefting foals. A lot of good that strength did us yesterday," added Erkenbrand bitterly. "I am sorry, Gamling. I should have listened to my own instincts. What an old fool I have become."

Gamling shook his head slightly as he eyed his former Marshal. "I would have you by my side any day of the week. Neither of us expected trouble here."

Erkenbrand snorted. "No? Well the king's instincts were certainly on the mark. I should not have doubted him."

"You doubted him?" asked Gamling, somewhat surprised. "You knew that Snowbourne did not answer the muster."

"Yes, I knew, but I believed that there must be a logical reason. I have known Marshal Garoth for many years; I could not believe that he would commit treason."

"So you doubted Éomer?" Gamling said quietly.

"Not the man, Gamling, never the man. His honor is beyond question. It was his vehemence that I questioned, I am sorry to say."

"I have had the privilege of watching Éomer closely for the past few years. His instincts are uncanny. He will make a fine king."

"Let us hope that his instincts do not fail him now," replied Erkenbrand darkly as thunder rumbled across sky mirroring the Marshal's mood.

"Why do you mean by that?" asked Gamling.

"Those brigands took my ring, Gamling. They mean to send a message back to Edoras under my seal. I know not what harm my foolishness has unleashed."

O-o-O-o-O

As the rains fell, Margeth walked as quickly as she could to her small home located at the edge of the Snowbourne encampment. Her slim shoulders were slumped by fatigue and discouragement, for it had been another trying day. The woman and her husband worked long hours in the manor house and longed for the blessed relief that returning to their small cottage each night afforded. Here she and Barech could relish the peace that home and hearth provided…could feel a breath of freedom in the memories of better days that seemed all the more real when spoken of within these humble walls.

Stepping in the door she hung her dripping shawl on a peg by the door, her mind already on how they would share a simple fare of soup, bread and ale. Margeth moved across the darkened room unerringly. For all the years of her marriage this small house had been her home, the place where she had borne and raised three sons. Margeth's heart lurched, as it always did, when she though about her boys. The two oldest were lost to her…killed during the years of constant war against the evil ones. The youngest Raolf, please Béma let it be, was still alive and being held with the other warriors forced now to work in the long abandoned mines.

The woman had just gotten the fire in the hearth blazing when a noise startled her. Spinning to look towards the source of the sound, Margeth gave a small gasp as a form materialized from the darkened corner.

"Raolf?" she breathed. But it could not be Raolf, could it?

The shadow continued to move towards her haltingly as she stood frozen, her eyes unable to make sense of what she was seeing. Slowly the boy stumbled towards the light, finally revealing young features marred by pain and grief.

Margeth could see that it the young man was not Raolf, but she did not know him. What was clear to her though was that the young man was in pain. There was blood dripping onto the floor from a wound she could not see. Still she could not force herself to move.

"Who are you?" she finally managed to murmur.

"Please, help me," breathed the young one. "I could not go further." He stumbled and fell against the table, catching himself by bending over the wooden structure.

Her fatigue forgotten, Margeth found her legs. She rushed over to the man and guided him to the closest chair. She could now see the shaft of an arrow protruding from his back. She helped the boy to put his head down on the table when he moaned and appeared to grow faint. "Here lad," she soothed, "just rest here a moment. Keep your head down until the dizziness recedes."

"I am grieved to have frightened you, mother. I knew that I could not elude them in the mountains as wounded as I am, yet I must survive to summon help for my Marshal."

"You poor dear, you are soaked through." The woman poured some water from the pitcher on the table onto the edge of her apron and began stroking the back of the boy's neck and washing the mud from his face. "Here, rest easy, this should help to settle your stomach. Just take deep breaths." She took his hand in her own, a simple move of comfort common to all mothers. "Ach, your hands are like ice.What is your name, son?"

"Dageth, my name is Dageth."

The woman could not help but smile. "Our names are similar. Do you come from the Westfold perhaps?"

"Yes," said Dageth softly. "Have you any word of the Marshals or my éored?"

"They live," replied Margeth bitterly. "Gilmóod always keep them alive to work in the mines, if you can call that living."

Dageth tried to rise. "I must help them…" His voice ended in a soft groan as he slumped back against the table.

Margeth was by his side immediately. "You're not going anywhere in this condition or it will be the last journey you ever take. You'll be no good to them if you're dead, now will you?"

The young scout could only nod as the kindly woman once again place the damp edge of her apron against the back of his neck.

"My husband will be home soon. He will help me get you to our son's bed. You will be safe here until we can figure out what to do." Margeth prayed her words were the truth, for she had no idea what went on in the great hall and whether or not Gilmóod's men were even now search door to door for the young man.

The door opened admitting a blast of cold rain into the room causing Margeth to jump in fright before she realized that it was Barech entering the house.

Barech paused for a moment when he caught sight of his wife's frightened face. "What …" his voice faltered when he realized his wife leaned over a warrior.

"What is this?" he breathed, hurriedly closing the door behind him with a fearful glance backward. He pulled off his sodden cloak and it placed on the peg besides his wife's shawl.

"Not what, husband…who," replied the woman as she bathed Dageth's neck and face. "Help me get him to Raolf's bed. Then get him out of these clothes while I put on some water to boil. We must get that arrow out of his back."

Barech hurried over to the table to help his wife. He recognized Dageth as the scout he had tried to warn with his eyes. "They will kill us if they find out we are hiding him."

"You are the one who told me not to lose faith." Margeth grunted slightly as she helped her husband with the man. "Besides, you would no sooner turn your back on a wounded man than I would."

"No, of course I would not," admitted Barech. "I was just surprised and concerned for you, my dear."

Together they helped Dageth to a small bed situated off to the side of the room behind a wood and canvas partition. The couple carefully guided him to sit on the side of the bed so that his leather jerkin could be unlaced. As an advance scout, he had not worn the heavy armor normally worn by the éoreds.

"Bring me a knife, wife, for I must cut away the jerkin from around the arrow. It looks to be lodged in his shoulder, thanks be to Béma. Had it been lower it likely would have been a mortal wound."

After Barech had gingerly removed the scout's clothing and had the man settled on his stomach on the small bed, he worked to remove the arrow shaft aided by Margeth. The woman had given the warrior a strip of leather to hold between his teeth as her husband dug at the buried shaft. She did what she could to help Barech while comforting Dageth and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"Not much longer now, child," she soothed. "Your mother would be proud of how brave her son is."

It took over an hour for Barech to painstakingly remove the arrow and search for the few shards that had splintered off. By the time he finished Dageth had passed out. Barech carefully wrapped the shoulder and covered the young man. He was ashen from fatigue, exhausted beyond belief as he looked at his wife. "I have done all I can. It is in Bema's hands now."

TBC


	21. Chapter 21, A People of Courage

**To the King**

**Chapter Twenty One**

**A People of Courage**

"**_Courage is found in unlikely places."_**

**_J. R. R. Tolkien  
_**

_Snowbourne_

As the first shimmering rays of dawn crept near the crest of the mountains, Barech stood stiffly from the chair where he had been keeping vigil by the young warrior from Edoras. Barech and Margeth had taken turns sitting with the wounded man during the night, both to keep watch on the wound and to intervene should Dageth cry out in his delirium. Should he be heard by the wrong people, it would mean the death of all of them.

The storm of the previous night had blown itself out leaving only as soft rain as Margeth turned from the fire where she was stirring porridge in a black pot suspended over the flames. "How is his fever, husband?"

"No so bad as earlier, I think," responded Barech. The old man sighed, torn over the situation. He and Margeth dared not risk drawing attention to themselves by not appearing for work as normal, yet they both feared to leave the wounded man alone. They had been discussing their options for the past hour.

"It is the only solution," stated Margeth. "You know this."

Barech's frown deepened. "I do not like drawing her into this. It will not go well if we are discovered."

Margeth's eyes sought his, the sadness and love reflected clearly. "She is to be our daughter, Béma willing. If this were Raolf, she would want others to help him, and she will want to help this one."

The young woman in question, Hillis, lived two doors away. The villagers of Snowbourne had been careful to keep their daughters away from the eyes of Gilmóod and his band as much as possible. With cornflower blue eyes and hair the color and texture of spun golden silk, Hillis had turned the heads of many a young warrior in happier days. Her beauty was unquestioned, but it was her bubbly joy and tender heart that endeared her to all she met.

It was jokingly said that hearts had broken all over Snowbourne when the lass had chosen Raolf to become her husband. Before the blessed day could become reality however, Gilmóod arrived and all their lives had taken a horrible turn. Now she was one of several maidens that helped to watch the young children while mothers worked the gardens and attempted to fill in other jobs that had normally been done by the men of the village…the ones not in the éored.

It was easy for her to remain away from prying eyes that way, and would make it possible for her to sit with Dageth. It was not the best of solutions, but most of their solutions these days were far from ideal.

"Eat," ordered Margeth. "I will go for Hillis while it is still dark. It is too dangerous for her to be out and about once the sun arises."

O-o-O-o-O

_Edoras_

Éomer wiped his hands on a rough cloth as he walked from the stables after riding and grooming Firefoot. Dressed in simple leather breeches and boots, his linen shirt was open to the waist, though tucked into the breeches. The king's hair was pulled back and secured by a leather strap this day for he had known he would spend a goodly amount of time bending over Firefoot's hooves.

A vaporous fog hung in the early morning air as he greeted citizens out and about their business while he made his way back to the Meduseld for break of fast. Hildegard had promised the king some apple hotcakes accompanied by honey butter, and he was anxious to taste them. Éomer's stomach growled as he thought about the food and gave thanks, once again, for the presence of Hildegard in the kitchens. The woman had been a fixture in his life for as long as he had lived in Edoras and he loved her dearly.

"Sire."

Éomer turned to face the guard approaching him.

"A message has been received from Marshal Erkenbrand," said the man, handing the rolled parchment over.

The king took the missive and read it while the guard waited for further instructions. His brow furrowed as he read. He finally looked up, dismissed the guard, and walked on towards the Golden Hall deep in thought. As he walked to the dining room adjoining his sleeping chamber, where it had become routine for him to share break of fast with Éowyn, Faramir, the children, and Elena, the king literally ran into Faramir.

"I'm sorry, Éomer!" exclaimed Faramir, as he bent to retrieve the message that he had inadvertently knocked from the king's hand. "I was so intent on getting to the applecakes that I'm afraid I was not watching where I went."

Éomer smiled at the measured chaos of the room. The laughter and conversation was a balm for his trouble soul and always restored a measure of peace to the young king's heart. "The fault was likely mine, Faramir," he responded, placing a huge hand onto the Steward's shoulder. "I was preoccupied with the message and not paying attention myself."

Reading the look on her brother's face, Éowyn's rose from her place at the crowded table. "What is wrong, Éomer?"

The children and Elena fell silent at the worry in the young woman's voice. For the children's entire lives, messages had carried grave news…news that took loved ones away from them.

"Peace, Éowyn," Éomer quickly responded. "The message is from Erkenbrand, though why he did not send one of his own riders with it is a puzzle…and unlike him."

"Is he well, Sire? What of Gamling?" asked Berga, who had been invited to take her meals with the family until the return of her husband.

"Now Berga," soothed Elena, "you should not go borrowing trouble…especially in your condition."

"What condition?" asked Thela, her little mouth full of the warm cakes.

"Never you mind, little one," answered the elderly woman as she reached over to wipe a bit of butter from the child's chin. "Just finish your breakfast, for today is the day I promised to teach you how to make a lacy ribbon."

"Yippee!" squealed the little girl. "Eat fast Márta! I want to get started."

"Do not eat fast, children," instructed Éowyn immediately. "There will be plenty of time for the making of ribbons."

Márta, Meela and Thela returned to their breakfast, the message forgotten in the excited anticipation of the morning's treat.

Éowyn came to stand by her brother. "What is it, Éomer?"

"Lord Garoth has suffered a stroke and has requested our presence."

"Oh, how sad." said Éowyn. "I remember the Marshal coming to Edoras. He would always bring me a present. But you say he wants both of us to attend?" she asked. "That is most curious. I have not seen him in years."

Éomer nodded, his thoughts far away. "Apparently he wishes to beg our forgiveness for the inability of his éored to respond to the muster."

"Who was the messenger, Éomer?" questioned Faramir softly, so as not to raise undo attention from the table of chatting children. Something here seemed a bit off.

"He was unknown to the doorward, but this is definitely Erkenbrand's seal. I would stake my life on that," answered Éomer. He smiled at the steward. "Fear not, Faramir, I shall keep my sister safe."

Faramir blushed slightly. "Forgive me, Éomer, I should not have questioned…"

"Nonsense!" interrupted Éomer. "I would be offended should you _not_ show concern for Éowyn's safety. I will take a sufficient guard with us. We will travel fast and light and be back before you know it."

Faramir's mind was racing. "I promised Hálith that I would show him how to scout. Why don't we leave ahead of you, after break of fast, and head towards Snowbourne. We will shadow your movements. If we are able to meet you at Snowbourne without having been seen by your or your guards, I will have taught him well."

Éomer smiled as he took up the challenge. "Done. If you are able to scout my éored without being seen, then my men will _need_ to further train!"

A whoop of joy exploded from the table from where Hálith had been listening to the conversation. "I'll go tell Hamm!"

A slight tugging at his tunic caught Faramir's attention and he looked down to see tiny Gandafin looking up at him with red rimmed eyes. "Can't I come, Faramir? I want to be a Ranger too!"

Faramir's heart melted and as he knelt down beside the lad. "Your captain has a duty for his special Ithilian Ranger. Can you carry out my charge, young Gandafin?"

The boy swallowed nosily while he fought the emotions warring within him, for he dearly wished to travel in the wilds with Faramir. But like all the young of Rohan, this child had been raised to do his duty, and he nodded his acceptance of that duty now. "What are my orders, Captain?"

"There is a new litter of hounds in the stables, and I have my eye on the smallest. I would like for you to watch out for him, for his lot in this life will be difficult if we do not give him extra attention now. See that he is given his turn at his mother's teat and play gently with him so that he feels loved. Can you do that for me, Gandafin?"

The boy's eyes shone his excitement. "Oh yes," he breathed, "I can take care of your puppy, but what about Bergoff, Felor and Tredin?"

Faramir had to force himself not to smile as he glanced over at the table where the three other boys were trying very hard to listen without appearing to do so. The Steward walked over to the table to stand beside the boys. He rocked back and forth on his heals as he pretended to be deeply pondering the situation. "The pups are young and likely to get in the way of the stable masters. Perhaps it would be good for all of you boys to play with them and make sure they do not become a nuisance. Would that be acceptable?" he asked, looking at the youngsters.

Bright, sticky smiles and nods were his answer.

"There is one more charge I lay upon you, boys. The hounds are in need of names. I leave the choosing of those names to you. Choose well, for it should reflect the value and personality of each pup."

"We will," smiled the boys.

"I will choose a good name for your hound, Faramir!" exclaimed Gandafin.

O-o-O-o-O

_Snowbourne_

Hillis stoked the flames in the fireplace praying that none of Gilmóod's men would notice smoke from the chimney of a house that was normally empty during the day. In her favor was the fact that the house was on the edge of the village the furthest from the mines where the guards would be busy watching over their slaves force. For not the first time, she sent up a quick prayer for the safety of Raolf and all the other men imprisoned there.

Dageth moaned from the bed, drawing Hillis' attention. She quickly positioned the pot of water where it could heat and went back to her patient's bedside. The young man had taken a quick turn for the worse, and she feared for his life. During the late watch of the night the wound had become infected, a fact which she discovered when she went to change his dressing and found it malodorous.

The wound site was hot and enflamed, with a sickly yellow tinge along the stitch line. Her stomach churned at the sight before her and the knowledge of what she must do. There was no healer in Snowbourne and so the women here had always seen to their own. Like all of their countrymen they were a hardy bunch…a people of courage. Many a time Hillis had watched her mother work on her father or brothers after a battle, though she had never been responsible for a patient all alone, and that thought worried her.

Part of the young woman wished to wait until nightfall when Raolf's parents would return, but she dared not, for his fevers had climbed as the site reddened, and it was only noontime. She could feel the throbbing in the wound when she placed her hand gently atop it.

Once the water was boiling, she placed some soft cloths in the pot to soak. While the cloths heated, she searched the medicine pantry for herbs that would be useful in a poultice. Hillis was also pleased to find yarrow that she could add to some tea to lower the fever. Soft moans from Dageth hurried her movements, for she wished to ease his suffering.

Moving back to the bed, Hillis picked up a cool cloth and held it against his heated brow. He appeared to be around Raolf's age and shared the red hair of her beloved, but she did not know his eye color, for he had not awakened as yet in the day. He still roamed the dark halls of a fever induced nightmare where he struggled with some unknown enemy.

"Shhh," she crooned, stroking the damp hair of the warrior from his face. "Rest easy, Dageth, I will take care of you." Softly she hummed a song that her mother had always sung to her when she was a child. It was a happy song of grassy plains, swift horses, and sunny, blue skies. Slowly Dageth stilled beneath her soothing touch.

A short while later, the warrior shifted, moaning at the movement. Groggily, he opened his fever glazed eyes slightly, blinking a few times in an attempt to clear his vision. "Water," he croaked.

Hillis poured a bit into a mug from a pitcher on the nearby table and brought it back to the bedside. She knelt beside the bed trying to figure out the most efficient way to help the man drink from his position on his stomach. "Here, drink this slowly," she urged as she lowered the cup to a spot lower than the side of the bed.

Dageth pulled his head up enough to be able to drink a few sips, but soon tired and coughed as he choked on the liquid.

Hillis set the mug aside and wiped his mouth with the cloth. "Dageth, my name is Hillis. I am the intended of Raolf. Barech and Margeth asked me to watch over you while they are at work." Hillis knew she was rambling and the warrior would likely remember none of it, but the words helped to soothe her nerves. She set the cool compress aside and walked over to the pot to retrieve the heated cloths and the small dagger from the healing bag.

Juggling the hot water, clothes, dagger and poultice, Hillis made her way back to Dageth's bedside. Arranging her supplies on the small chair, she sat gingerly sat down beside Dageth, taking care to jostle him as little as possible. She pulled back the covers to his waist and began to slowly and carefully remove the bandages covering the wound. The stench fairly took her breath away and she was appalled at the increase of infection.

The arrow had obviously been tainted in some way, for the surrounding tissue had swollen to twice its size, stretching and pulling at the precise stitches. Hillis had never seen an infection grow this rapidly, and her heart was beating in fear as she realized that the warrior's life might well be in her hands.

The young woman went to work applying the steamy cloths to the infection site to soften the swollen skin. Dageth moaned softly at even the slight pressure from the cloths. After several applications the wound was softened enough for Hillis to take the dagger and make several small slits in the swelling around the wound. Immediately a foul offage began to run from the lacerations, which Hillis wiped away with fresh linen strips. It took several minutes, but she finally got all of the infection drained and the site cleansed. She applied the poultice and secured it with fresh bandages.

The young woman's hands were shaking by the time she had completed her task. She quickly put away the supplies while she fervently prayed she would not need again and took up the task of applying cooling cloths to Dageth's face and neck, wishing that time would speed up and that soon she would be relieved of the responsibility for the warrior. Hillis was terrified that Dageth would need help that she could not give him.

O-o-O-o-O

The warmth of the morning sun was burning away the fog as Faramir, Hamm, and Hálith mounted their horses. Their plan was to ride into the mountains around Snowbourne, make a camp for their mounts and themselves and then scout back down the trails until they sighted Éomer's contingent coming. It was Faramir's plan to then shadow the éored from the hills, tracking their progress and teaching Hálith how to blend into the surrounding countryside.

The four younger boys, who had been heartbroken to be left behind until being given the "task" of playing with the puppies, stood outside the stables both to fare well their friends and to begin their puppy playing. To their way of thinking there was no better place in the world than the stables of Edoras, and they were now made even better by the addition of the litter of hounds in the back.

Éowyn stood outside on the terrace in front of the Meduseld and watched as Faramir and the other two rode down towards the gate. She stood there watching until they were out of sight only starting as she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

"They will be safe, Éowyn," said Éomer softly. "We will be following within a day."

Éowyn sighed and leaned back against her brother's strong chest. "All my life we have been at war against one form of evil or another, and I had to wonder – each time I watched you and Theo ride out – whether or not I would ever see you again."

"Those days are behind us."

"I know," Éowyn breathed, "so why do I still feel the threat?"

TBC


	22. Chapter 22, And So it Begins

**To the King**

**Chapter Twenty Two**

**And So It Begins**

"_Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trail and suffering can the soul be strengthened, ambition inspired, and success achieved." Helen Keller_

Hálith was beside himself with excitement as he rode between Faramir and Hamm. They had camped the previous night and risen at dawn to resume the journey. The trio had been on the trail now for some hours and the thrill had not lessened one bit in the young man's mind. All his young life, Hálith had dreamed of being a warrior, of riding the plains and protecting his people, and here he was, being taught tracking by none other then the Steward of Gondor.

Faramir had studied the maps in the Meduseld before setting out and already had in his mind a likely spot for their base camp. He planned for them to set a swift pace, reaching the designated spot in plenty of time for them to spend a day or two working on Hálith's skills and preparing a surprise or two for the king's éored, which would follow at a more leisurely pace.

The area Faramir had spied in his study was a small vale tucked into the upper regions of the Ered Nimrais above the Harrowdale. He would have to actually see the location to judge its suitability for himself, but from what he saw on the maps it looked promising for their needs.

Faramir found his blood racing at the prospect of once again being out in the wilds and able to utilize the skills he had perfected as an Ithilien Ranger, the elite commando unit of the Gondorian military. To the people of Gondor, the Rangers might not have seemed to be such, for they were neither as finely appointed as the Tower Guard with their gull winged mithril helms nor as normal a sight as the armor clad regulars, but to a man the Rangers preferred their lot to any other.

The Rangers were a mix of rugged individualists and men who preferred the isolation of life in the wilderness, where death could pursue a man in many forms. These men were unsurpassed in the ability to meld into the background, gather intelligence, and survive in the harsh environs of the lands east of the Anduin…the border lands of Mordor. Responsible for North and South Ithilien, the Rangers operated from their base at Henneth Annûn, but ranged out from there all the way to the Ephel Dúath – the Mountains of Shadow. It was no service for the faint of heart.

Hamm too was enjoying the chance to be away from the city and the stables. Riding freely beside Faramir and Hálith reminded him of the days when he would travel with his parents as his father transported his wares to the border settlements. The more he was around Faramir, the more he liked the man, too. It had taken him most of a day to become unselfconscious in the Steward's company, but after he was finally able to relax, he found Faramir to be quite an enjoyable companion. He was much quieter than his brother had been, but no less approachable. And it was clear to Hamm that Hálith adored the Steward, as did all the children presently living at the Meduseld.

Faramir kept up a running stream of instructions and situations for Hálith as they traveled, and it amused Hamm to watch the boy soaking up the attention and the knowledge like the proverbial sponge. He had to admit that much of the information being imparted was obviously hard earned and would be valuable to anyone needing survival skills. Hamm watched the pair dismount and lead their horses as Faramir showed Hálith ways to move without leaving a trail. Obviously the horses complicated matters, but that could not be helped until they reached their final destination later in the afternoon.

First, however, they would stop at Harrowdale to pay their respects to Marshal Fingol. Then they would be free to set up their base camp and begin hunting and scouting in earnest. Hamm found himself looking forward to the adventure almost as much as Hálith.

O-o-O-o-O

_Edoras, the next morning…_

While the children finished their breakfast under the watchful eyes of Hildegard and Brega, Éowyn was packing healing supplies with the help of Elena.

"Is there anything that I might do to aid Marshal Garoth?" she queried for the tenth time.

"No love, we have been over this," Elena patiently explained yet again. "Time is the best healer for this ailment. Sometimes Bema blesses us with a partial recovery and sometimes he does not. The marshal can be made comfortable and a writing tablet supplied to aid with his communication, but that is about all I can suggest." The woman paused, thinking back over her years of healing.

"My mother's people believed that the apoplexy was the result of punishment by Bema…that he had literally struck them down, and that is where the term 'stroke' originated, so far as I know. In many areas of our medical knowledge we are more enlightened now, but in the treatment of stroke I'm afraid that is not the case."

Éowyn paused from her packing and labeling of supplies and looked beseechingly at Elena. "Is there no hope then?"

Elena could not help but smile at the young woman. "Child, there is always hope. Where there is life there is hope." The woman sat on the side of the bed. "Try opening the marshal's chambers to the night air," she said thoughtfully. "But be sure to keep him well covered to ward off chill," she cautioned. "The cold air may stimulate the vessels in the marshal's brain and cause some improvement."

Éowyn smiled. At least she had something positive to try. "Thank you, Elena! I will try that. Perhaps we can bring some relief to the marshal."

While Éowyn packed, Éomer was busy with the last minute details of organizing the journey to Snowbourne. He would have preferred to take just a dozen of the royal guard as accompaniment, but the acting chief of guards had balked at that idea, insisting upon a troop of 30 with the king. Even though this was to be a quick trip to hear the marshal's apology, the king would be well protected. Éomer would also most likely be compelled while there to name a new marshal to replace the ailing Garoth, for Snowbourne was too valuable an outpost to be allowed to fall into a leaderless chaos. The chief of guards was not sure how that move would be received, so he wanted to be well prepared.

Actually, Éomer had no idea in what condition he would find Snowbourne. There had been no reports from the settlement since before the end of the war, and Erkenbrand's missive had been extremely vague, which caused his instincts to twitch nervously.

Marshal Grimborn, who had been summoned from Grimslade, would remain in Edoras to rule in the king's stead until Éomer returned. Grimborn and Éomer had worked together many times, and the king felt perfectly at ease knowing that Rohan would be in safe hands while he was away.

Now all that was left to do was to console four morose little boys who were waiting in the stables to show him how well they were caring for the hound pups. Excited to be playing with the puppies, the boys had been content to see Faramir, Hálith and Hamm leave, but now that the king was leaving too they were most inconsolable.

Éomer understood the unspoken fear behind the sadness in the boy's eyes. The loss of their parents was still fresh in their young minds…the memory of sadness and hunger and fear. Éomer wished that he could drive those memories from their thoughts, but he knew he could not. He could only continue to love them and reassure them that he would return quickly.

As Éomer entered the stables, the four boys quickly came to their feet and bowed for their king, as Faramir had taught them. Then they raced to see who would be the first to jump into Éomer's outstretched arms. As the oldest, Bergoff made it first and was rewarded with a bear hug from his idol.

The king knelt so that the younger three could simply stand within his arms and receive attention. He was careful to hear their "report" and praise each accordingly. The boys were in the process of choosing names for their hounds as Faramir had instructed, though Gandafin seemed crushed that he could not name his pup, Éomer. Hildegard had heard his intention and told him in no uncertain terms that his choice would _not_ be acceptable.

Éomer felt a cold, wet nose on his neck and looked to see Gandafin's yet unnamed pup snuggled in the child's arms.

"He's a fine pup, Gandafin," praised the king.

Gandafin smiled. "Thank you, sire. Are you sure you don't want him named after you?"

Éomer pretended to consider the request. "It's a fine honor you offer me, child, but do you not think it might confuse my guard to hear you calling after Éomer? In times of battle it must be clear who and where our leaders are."

Gandafin frowned as he considered Éomer's words. "I had not thought of that, sire. And if he misbehaved, I would not want the royal guard to hear that Éomer had an accident in the Great Hall."

Éomer burst out laughing at the image the child's words brought to mind. "I most heartily agree! It would not be good for my reputation for my people to fear that I was not housebroken! Ah, you are good for my heart, young ones."

O-o-O-o-O

Erkenbrand paused to wipe the sweat from his brow and glance furtively around the cave. Everywhere he looked men were working at a feverish pace, spurred on by the whips of their cruel overseers. The choking darkness was only broken by the flickering of pitch torches mounted onto the walls and belching out their own smoke to add to the misery.

The marshal gasped in pain as a lash fell across his bloody and beaten shoulders.

"Get back to work, you scum," growled the man wielding the whip.

Erkenbrand could barely restrain the fury surging within him. He pulled himself up to his full height and met the eyes of his tormentor.

The guard only smirked. "Still haughty, are we? I will enjoy beating that pride out of you, Erkenbrand. You are nothing to me…only another slave to use up for my pleasure." He brought the whip down on the marshal's shoulders until the man fell to his knees, and still the blows rained down.

"Stop it," shouted Gamling, from further down the line of bent and broken men. "You're killing him!"

The panting guard whirled to point the bloody whip at the men, Gamling in particular. "Get back to work, or you'll be next. Not get this straight…all of you. You're not warriors any more. Your world is this mine and the ore we want. Work hard and you live. Displease me and you die. It's as simple as that."

"Let me help him," begged Gamling, hating to be reduced to such a state, but desperate to help Erkenbrand.

The guard shrugged. "Why should I? You've been nothing but trouble."

Gamling pulled himself as straight as his chains would allow. "Erkenbrand is a strong man…a good worker. Gilmóod will not appreciate you killing such a good worker." It was a desperate attempt, but all Gamling had. He hoped that the idiot guard would have enough fear of Gilmóod to consider his words.

His ploy seemed to work as the man's eyes narrowed in consideration. After a moment of indecision he gestured to the fallen Marshal. "Help him up, but no more. He continues working."

"He needs water…"

The guard's face turned red, and spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted at Gamling. "I said no more!"

O-o-O-o-O

The king's party was leaving Edoras at last. Éomer and Éowyn had bid farewell to the children and left final instructions covering all contingencies. The royal guard flanked the king and his sister as they started down the hill from the Meduseld.

Along the winding route, the people of Edoras paused to bid farewell to the royal party. The great gates were thrown wide and the open fields beckoned.

The party had traveled only a few miles when a rider was seen approaching at great speed. Éomer frowned at how the horse was being driven. The warriors were alert and on guard, looking for any threat the unknown rider posed to the royal party.

As the rider approached it because apparent the man was a rider of Rohan. He waved his intention to approach the king's party and rode directly towards the éored.

"Sire?" voiced the lead warrior.

"Allow him to approach," said Éomer. Glancing at Éowyn, he decided to ride out to meet the man away from the main body of the group. He motioned for the troop to halt and rode forward accompanied by only two guards.

"It's Liam!" breathed the king when he recognized the approaching warrior. Éomer knew then that something was terribly wrong.

"Éomer!" panted the warrior, pulling the nearly blown horse to a halt by the king's side.

Éomer pulled his water skin and offered it to the exhausted man. "Drink this, Liam. Catch your breath and tell me what has happened. Where is Ceorl?"

Liam took a long drink from the skin. It trickled down each side of his chin as he gulped the precious liquid and then wiped the excess away from his beard with his sleeve. "It's bad, Éomer," he began.

"Just tell me," urged the king, his impatience getting the better of him.

"The Mearas breeding station of the Eastemnet has been destroyed. The people were all killed and the Mearas herd slaughtered."

Éomer's world spun out of control for a moment as Liam's words sunk in. "The breeding station destroyed…the herds slaughtered. How can this be?"

"It appeared to be the work of an orc band, Éomer. Ceorl is hunting them now, but we fear the other stations may be at risk."

"They must be protected!" said the king. "Liam, rest your horse for a bit and then go to Edoras. Tell Marshal Grimborn to send riders to warn the Marshals. I want the éoreds deployed to protect the stations. Tell Grimborn that I will take this group to cover the station at Grimslade. I will return to Edoras as soon as I am sure that the station is secure."

Éomer rode back to join the éored. "Éowyn, return to Edoras with Liam."

Éowyn shook her head. "Éomer, please, I have medical supplies for the Marshal. Let me go ahead to Snowbourne. I will return as soon as I have delivered the supplies and tried to give aid to Marshal Garoth. Besides, Faramir, Hálith and Hammock are out there waiting for us. If there is trouble in the Mark, they need to be warned as well."

Éomer hesitated. His first instinct was to send his sister back to Edoras, but the welfare of Faramir, Hálith and Hamm could not be ignored. Besides being his friend and brother to be, Faramir was the Steward of Gondor and he was honor bound as well as diplomatically bound to keep him safe. "Very well…you will take a dozen of this guard with you. Éowyn, deliver the supplies and return immediately."

"I will, Éomer. Be careful!"

Éomer quickly chose the twelve men to accompany Éowyn and signaled the rest to ride with him. "We ride for Grimslade!"

TBC


	23. Into the Mouth of the Cat

**To the King**

**Chapter Twenty Three**

**Into the Mouth of the Cat**

"_I may be compelled to face danger, but never fear it, and while our soldiers can stand and fight, I can stand and feed and nurse them._" _Clara Barton_

Faramir laughed as he prepared the break of fast. He had not felt so free in a long time. What a delight it was to be back out in the wilds without the ever present threat of Mordor looming over every thought and movement. Now he could actually enjoy the freedom of the hunt, of sitting around the fire after a long day, or just the magnificent vistas surrounding him without having to be constantly thinking of defense, options and counter options.

He was alert, of course, for the wilds still afforded many dangers, and Faramir of Gondor was no fool, but being alert had long ago become second nature to the man. He glanced at Hálith as he pulled a small tin plate from his pack. "A warrior always carries with him everything he will need, Hálith," he instructed.

The boy watched as Faramir took several hand fulls of oat grains from a pouch and quickly mixed them with some water. When they were a thick consistency, he formed them into small, flattened cakes and set them to cooking on the plate over the fire.

Hamm eyed the mixture with skepticism. The cakes looked pretty dry to him, but he knew they were saving the coneys Hálith had trapped until the nightly meal. Cobalt blue eyes sought out the boy and the deeply tanned lines around those eyes crinkled as the farrier smiled. His was a handsome face and one that was well acquainted with laughter. Hálith had been proud to display his "catch" after Faramir had taught him how to construct quick traps that could function while he hunted, thus doubling the chances for a meal other than the oat cakes.

"I don't know, Faramir," drawled Hamm. "How long have you been carrying around those grains?"

Faramir laughed again, and for a moment was startled. Laughter, his own, seemed almost foreign to his ears after a lifetime of war. He realized just as quickly that he enjoyed the sound, and fixed Hamm with a sheepish look. "For some time, I'll admit. But they age well," he added quickly with a grin.

"What else does a warrior need besides the grain?" asked Hálith.

Faramir flashed back to his first days as a Ranger and how eager and excited he had been. "First and most importantly your weapons for defense, a good cloak for warmth or for sleeping on in warm weather, a water skin, a flint for making fire – though some would consider that a luxury, and the land provides the rest. The key is learning how to find what the earth around you is offering."

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn watched Éomer and his warriors ride away, a concerned frown marring her fair features. Liam had told her the devastating news while he rested his weary horse. Éowyn was saddened by the loss of life and sickened at the thought of the slaughtered Mearas herd. Besides the loss of bloodline and tradition, the horses represented trading power for the Mark to be able to procure the supplies they would need to face the long winter. If the outlook had been grim before, it was downright bleak now.

She shook her head slightly, forcing the morose thoughts from her mind. They were Rohirric; they would survive. Her people had suffered difficult times for many years, and they would endure this. Éowyn had a glimmering of guilt. She would be leaving to marry Faramir and to live in comfort in Gondor. How could she do that? How could she abandon her brother to face this hardship alone? Yet even as she asked the question, she knew that Éomer would never let her postpone her nuptials to remain here.

"Are you sure you won't return to Edoras with me, Éowyn?" asked Liam. The young Marshal had loved the lady as a sister for as long as he could remember and did not like the idea of her traveling on to Snowbourne with such uncertainty stalking the land.

Éowyn smiled at Liam's concern. "I have a dozen warriors to accompany me, Liam. What could possibly go wrong?"

Liam snorted. "What has gone wrong for as long as I can remember, that's what! The war may be over, but danger still abounds. Take care, Éowyn. I must ride for Edoras and report to Marshal Grimborn."

"Béma be with you, Liam." She watched the Marshal mount his horse and ride for Edoras and then turned her own steed to continue the journey. Éowyn hoped that Faramir had not run into any trouble. "Please let them be safe," she prayed.

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth sat at the small table enjoying the new found freedom to leave his bed. His benefactors had departed for work in the manor house before the break of day. He scowled fiercely. It was barbarous how hard and for how long the elderly pair was forced to work. Dageth mentally added that injustice to the long list of wrongs he had to settle with Gilmóod and his men.

It had taken some doing, but he had finally persuaded Margeth that he was strong enough to stay alone. The warrior in him disliked putting these fine people in peril, but he could see no other options at this juncture. At least he could manage on his own now and Hillis would not have to risk being seen coming here to care for him. He hoped that Raolf was alive to return to his parents and his lovely lady.

As he had done every day, Dageth beseeched Barech before he left to listen for news of his Marshal, the Chief of Knights, and the other warriors of their party. Barech had assured the young scout that he would, but his eyes held a sadness that bespoke of grief and ill news awaiting them.

Dageth brought his fist down on the table with a force that rattled everything sitting on it. "Too long have these people suffered at the hands of these brigands!" Immediately his mending shoulder signaled displeasure at this rash act, and he gasped at the waves of pain that emanated from the region. As if his situation were not dire enough, he had this damnable wound to contend with. With every fiber of his being, Dageth wanted to scout the surrounding countryside to locate his Marshal, but he knew his first duty was to warn the King of the treachery abounding at Snowbourne.

O-o-O-o-O

Ceorl raised his hand to signal a halt to his éored. The marshal could see Agar, his lead tracker, riding back to meet them.

When the tracker was in range, the marshal called out. "What is it, Agar? What did you find?"

The éored had been tracking the orcs ever since they had finished burying the people from the Breeding Station and burning the beloved Mearas herd. Ceorl didn't think he would ever forget that action; it had literally burned itself into his heart and mind as the herd burned. The men had been frustrated to no end that the orcs had so far eluded them. The foul creatures should not have had that large a lead on the riders and besides, the orcs were on the lands of the Riddermark…lands these men knew intimately. Every advantage should have lain with the éored.

"They're mounted. That's why we haven't caught them," Agar reported.

"Mounted?" exploded Ceorl, his aggravation having reached epic scale. "Orcs don't ride horses! They steal them, they eat them, they even butcher them, but ride…never!"

Agar, long used to his demonstrative marshal waited patiently for Ceorl to vent his anger. "Never-the-less, we are following a mounted foe. Whether they are orcs is yet to be determined."

Ceorl stilled. His mind was racing as he digested the new information. "Are you suggesting that what we saw…the destruction and death at the station was done in such a way to make us believe it was the work of orcs?"

"I am not suggesting anything," replied Agar evenly. "I am simply reporting to you what I find. I have tracked many orcs, Marshal, and they are very disorderly, disorganized, and destructive. The ones we follow, while not experienced riders, are more adept than orcs could ever hope to be.

Ceorl's ire turned to fury. He had battled orcs for most of his life and was used to their mindless cruelty, but whoever did this had deliberately butchered a station full of people and horses to make it appear as though orcs still roamed the land. But to what purpose? That is the question which still eluded him.

The marshal turned to his swiftest rider. "Return to Edoras at once. The king must be made aware of this development. There is more afoot here than we first realized."

O-o-O-o-O

Gamling awoke, as he did every morning now, to the growled threats and admonitions of his sadistic guard. He had been dreaming of home…of Berga and him in their soft bed. What a cruel twist of fate to it seemed for him to go from the loving embrace of his wife to the cold, hard floor of a mine and the grating voice of his vicious Dunlending guard.

"Hurry up, you!" the ruffian taunted, pointing his omnipresent whip at Gamling. "You're not back in the king's company now, my pet. You are here to serve my pleasure! We keep you alive to serve this mine. Work well, and you _may_ live another day."

Gamling willed his stiff and battered body to move as the guard swaggered away to rouse yet another group of unfortunate prisoners. "I'm getting too old for this," he muttered to himself. His stomach growled in displeasure, but Gamling forced his thoughts away from it. They would be given no food or water until mid morning, when stale black bread, rotten potatoes and the precious drops of liquid would be doled out to the weary and famished men.

The chief of knights moved to help Erkenbrand – bedded beside him – to rise. The marshal was proud and as stubborn as the day was long, thus earning himself numerous beatings. If they were too slow at beginning their tasks they would be punished, and Gamling was not sure how many more beatings the man could survive.

"Come on, my friend," Gamling cajoled, "another day in paradise, eh?"

"How long has it been since we have seen the sky?" lamented Erkenbrand. "I begin to wonder how much longer I can suffer this black hole."

Gamling frowned at the uncharacteristic note of capitulation in the marshal's voice. "You will stand it as long as it takes, do you hear me! Éomer will undoubtedly be coming here – riding into a trap – and we must keep our wits about us so that we can help him."

"Help him how? We are chained, Gamling. Admit it, we are finished."

"I never thought to hear a marshal of the Mark admit defeat," growled Gamling, "especially Erkenbrand of the Westfold."

Erkenbrand turned tired and ashamed eyes to his friend. "You are right. I disgrace myself."

Gamling looked the man in the eye. "They may beat and batter our bodies but they cannot touch what is in here." He placed his hand over the marshal's heart. "It is from here that we will beat them, for they are cowards and cannot measure the strength of a warrior's heart."

Erkenbrand considered Gamling's words, nodding his head slowing. "We must begin to gather information. We will pass instructions through the line today. We need to know everything that anyone has noticed, especially how many guards we have, of what relief they rotate, and most importantly, which ones carry the keys to the chains."

Gamling was satisfied. This was the man he had long known. "We will not suffer our king to be enslaved here, even if it should take the life of every last one of us. I swear it!"

O-o-O-o-O

The hour early, the children still abed, Hildegard, Berga, and Elena sat at the table in the kitchens of the Meduseld enjoying the early morning quiet and the time they had come to call their own. The women relished the tempting aromas of the baking bread and were eagerly anticipating nice thick slices as soon as they were out of the ovens.

As they sipped their tea and chatted, Hildegard and Elena noticed that Berga was unusually hushed this morning.

Elena placed her hand over Berga's colder one, patting it comfortingly. "Are you well, child? Perhaps you should rest today. Hildegard and I can tend the children. I can make lace with the girls and I'm sure those precious boys will be playing in the stables with their pups."

"And I will make cookies with them when they tire of that," offered the cook.

To their great surprise, Berga burst into tears.

Hildegard quickly walked around the table and took the trembling woman into her arms. "What's wrong, my lamb? Are you ailing? Tell us what is wrong. You know we will help you if we can."

Too distraught to speak, Berga shook her head. "I…I…had a nightmare. It was so real."

"You are with child," soothed Elena. "Most women suffer fancies when they are carrying. I've seen it many times."

Unconvinced, Berga shook her head again. "No, this was too real. Something is wrong with Gamling; I just know it."

Hildegard sat down on the bench beside Berga so that she could take the young woman's head onto her shoulder. "There now, child, tell us about it if it will help."

Berga struggled to calm herself so that she could speak. "I was in blackness and I was cold, but I could hear Gamling calling to me from somewhere far away. Try as I might, though, I could not find him."

"Well of course that was upsetting," comforted Elena. "But child, how could it be real? You were here in your bed the whole time and not in some dark hole."

"That's true," agreed Berga reluctantly, sniffing as she dried her tears. "Then it couldn't have been real, could it?"

Elena smiled at the younger woman. "No child. Now you dry your tears because I do believe that bread is finished baking, and I don't know about you, but I've worked up quite an appetite for some."

O-o-O-o-O

Hammock had put away his bedroll and was extinguishing the fire. He poured water over the embers to be sure that they were completely doused. "What is the plan for today, Faramir?"

Faramir looked at the sun, gauging the time. "I believe we have time to scout a route I spied yesterday. If it leads where I believe it does, we will be able to pace Éomer's éored as they pass below us and then journey across country ahead of them to be waiting in Snowbourne to greet them."

Hálith gave a whoop of excitement. "That will be great! The king will never expect us to make it to Snowbourne ahead of them."

Faramir and Hamm smiled at the boy's enthusiasm. The truth be known, the men were beginning to catch the fever of the game themselves.

"Well let's get going," urged Hammock, a wide smile on his face. "The day is before us

**TBC**

**A/N:** Into the Mouth of the Cat is the title of a book based on the life of Lance P. Sijan (who, incidentally, my grandson Lance is named after). I chose this title because it, like the book, epitomizes heroism and courage to me. Lance Sijan was always a special kind of person--but it took Vietnam to show how special he was--in an epic of jungle survival and prison-camp defiance. He resisted his interrogators to the end, and he died two weeks later in Hanoi. His courage was an inspiration to other prisoners of war, and he was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.


	24. Heroic Hearts

**To the King**

**Chapter 24**

**Heroic Hearts**

"_Though much is taken, much abides. And though we are not now that strength which in old days moved heaven and earth, that which we are we are – one equal temper of heroic hearts, made weak by time and fate, but strong in will, to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield."_

_Alfred Lord Tennyson_

As he did each morning, Dageth stretched and tested the strength of his slowly healing shoulder. He was getting stronger every day and had decided that this was the day he would leave the home of Barech and Margeth and begin making his way back to Edoras to alert the king as to the danger here in Snowbourne.

Nightly Dageth had quizzed Barech on the surrounding area, on the locations of guards, and Barech's ideas for the fastest route of escape. It would do the young scout no good to leave this house if he were just captured as he tried to make his way through the mountain passes.

Obviously he could not return by the main pass. That route was, of necessity, the most direct and therefore the most traveled. Now it would also be the most guarded. Barech and Dageth had decided upon a path that would take Dageth further up into the mountains and around the back side of the Snowbourne fortress. This path held its share of dangers because it would take him close to the mines, and therefore close to the guards, but it would have to be chanced.

Margeth had changed his dressing this morning before she left for work in the manor house. Knowing that Dageth would leave today, and clearly cognizant of the peril and hardships he would face, the woman had been teary eyed as she wished him Bema's blessing and kissed his cheek tenderly. The woman then wrapped the shoulder as securely as she could to protect it and insisted upon the scout taking extra bandages and some of her precious stock of healing herbs with him. The kindly woman had also supplied him with food and water.

Now as ready as he would ever be, Dageth simply settled down and waited for his moment. For some days Dageth had been studying the pattern of the people in this area of Snowbourne. He knew that those like Barech and Margeth, who worked in the big house, would leave before daylight. Others, who began their work in the stables, the smithy, or other various shops, would leave a few hours later.

It was after this second group of worker traversed the paths that Dageth planned to make his escape. Once more pulling back the small covering from the lone window in this room, Dageth glanced back and forth, assuring himself that no one was in sight. It was now or never, he reasoned. Taking a deep breath, the scout opened the door and walked towards the hills. He moved with a seemingly self assured stride, as though he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

O-o-O-o-O

"Come on," laughed Faramir, motioning to Hálith and Hamm to keep up. "Not much further now."

Hamm and Hálith were both panting as they struggled to keep up with Faramir. The man was literally sprinting through the mountain passes as though he had been born with four legs instead of two. They caught up with him where he had paused near the summit of one particularly rocky bluff.

"Here," Faramir exclaimed. "This will be a great place from which to observe Éomer's troop. Once we see them come through we can cut around and beat them to Snowbourne." His fair cheeks were ruddy with color and a smattering of new freckles had popped out on his nose giving the Steward of Gondor a decidedly youthful appearance. He looked down the pass below, mentally judging the time it would take the troop to completely negotiate the mountain passage.

"H, how can you run like this?" asked Hálith, his breath coming quick and hard. "I didn't think a ruler of Gondor would be able to run so long."

"Hálith!" Hamm exclaimed, embarrassed and afraid that Faramir would be offended.

Amusement sparkled in his eyes as Faramir turned back to the pair. "Ah, so I have held up Gondor's honor well, have I?"

"More than enough," agreed Hamm ruefully. "Indeed, you have shown me that I must get out of the smithy more often."

Faramir started to reply when something caught his eye. "Down!" he whispered, kneeling quickly. Hamm dropped, grabbing Hálith as he went down.

"What is it you see?" asked Hamm. "Is the Éomer's troop?"

"No," said Faramir softly. "It was a movement in the rocks above the pass on the other side. Stay down while I move for a better look. It is probably nothing, but I do not wish to be surprised. Éomer may have sent out some scouts of his own."

Hamm watched as soundlessly Faramir moved off. He was amazed at the grace of the man and his ability to travel with such economy of movement and sound.

O-o-O-o-O

"Barech!" bellowed Gilmóod. "More wine!"

The elderly man hurried to the kitchen to fetch more wine for the new self-styled master of Snowbourne. Barech would never think of him as a Marshal, though that is the title he liked to claim, for only the King of the Riddermark could appoint Marshals.

It had been days since the true Marshal, Garoth, had been seen. And though he had allowed these ruffians to take up residence in Snowbourne, Barech could not find it in his heart to blame the kindly old man. Indeed, Marshal Garoth had seemed to change slowly, as though bewitched by Gilmóod, until it was too late to ward off the evil that had befallen them. Barech feared for him.

Returning from the kitchen bearing fresh wine, Barceh filled the mug that Gilmóod had lifted to him. The task complete, Barech resumed his "station" standing against the wall, far enough away to be unobtrusive, but close enough to be summoned.

"Scaro!" Gilmóod growled, for he was in a foul mood. "What have your scouts reported? Are the riders from Edoras approaching?"

Scaro considered how best to answer the inquiry, for Gilmóod was in a bad humor, and wine only made him meaner. "No news yet, my lord," he began, "but I have instructed our scouts to report immediately once they are sighted. We will have plenty of time to prepare for the arrival of our _honored_ guests."

Gilmóod cursed and flung the flagon of wine across the room.

"Until then," Scaro hastened to add, "I have arranged for some entertainment for you." He clapped his hands.

The great front doors crashed open and through them a man was propelled. He wore little more than a loin cloth and was so weighed down with chains that he had difficulty standing straight. The guard with him led the man by a loop around his neck, which was pulled unmercifully tight. Chunks of beard had been pulled from the man's bruised and battered face, and lash marks crisscrossed his bloody back.

Gilmóod's eyes widened and then he let out a great roar of a laugh. "Marshal Erkenbrand! How low the mighty have fallen! Welcome to my table!"

Erkenbrand's guard gave a heave on the marshal's neck loop and the man was pulled to his knees, which brought a chorus of laughs and jeers from the assembled thugs. Several spat on the downed man.

Gilmóod was laughing so hard that tears were streaming down his face. "Oh Scaro, you have, indeed, provided me with entertainment."

The guard kicked Erkenbrand in the side. "Get up, you!"

Barech watched the man struggle to his feet, sickened by the sight. He remembered the Marshal from when he had first arrived at Snowbourne, and was glad that Margeth was in the kitchen and unable to witness the man's humiliation. Barech could see that Erkenbrand was weak from the exertion of rising, and the servant would have closed his eyes but for what happened next.

As the marshal made it to his feet, he refused to look at Gilmóod. Instead, he fixed his eyes on Barech, surprising the servant with the intensity of the gaze, for in that look Barech saw not defeat or humiliation, but pride and defiance.

The old servant pulled himself up and stood at attention, as he had done when he was a Rider of the Mark himself. Scarcely daring to breathe, Barech brought his right fist up to place it over his heart in salute. Here was a man he could respect, and here was a man he would follow.

O-o-O-o-O

Gamling grunted as his foot hit a rock causing him nearly to stumble. The action caught the attention of the guard, who only laughed at his prisoner's clumsiness and shook out his whip in a threatening manner.

"Keep working," the guard shouted.

Gamling was too weary to reply, if that were even possible. As all the others, he had learned that response only garnered you more lashes, so now he just kept his head down. Soon they must stop for water, for the man was parched from the heat and fumes of this infernal tunnel.

The days were horribly ordered in the mines. Being a soldier and used to routine, Gamling normally relished knowing what his day would bring, but not here. Here the monotony of the backbreaking work was broken for only two reasons…the short periods they were given for meals or sleep, and for beatings. Before dawn the guards would awaken the men by choosing one to receive the first lashes of the day. It was a good day if you were not the one chosen.

After being awakened, the men would be given a ration of water and marched back down the tunnels to begin work. At some time past mid morning they would be allowed to stop for the first of their two daily meals, if they could be called that. The first one consisted of a rotting potatoes and black bread. The second meal, given only after the men had completed work for the day, consisted of a watery soup and more of the black bread. Occasionally the meals would be supplemented with a cold, gruel-like substance.

The toll upon the once proud Snowbourne éored had been devastating, for they had been in captivity since before the end of the war. Scaro had executed the older, more experienced of the éored in the very beginning because he feared they might lead an insurrection. Their battered and brutalized bodies had been left on display as an example to those remaining. Still, the spark of resistance had burned bright in the hearts of the warriors for many months until the relentless physical, mental, and emotional abuse had worn them down. Now most were but shells of their former selves.

Under these conditions, Gamling harbored few illusions as to how much of a fighting force he and Erkenbrand could raise, or how much actual help they would be to Éomer, but they had to try. Besides themselves, there were five others who had accompanied them from Edoras. Gamling had seen no sign of Dageth, so he feared the scout was dead.

Yesterday he and Marshal Erkenbrand had begun their fledgling attempt at gathering information. Pitiful though the results had been, it was a beginning. He had not seen Erkenbrand since morning when they had been roused from sleep, and that concerned him. However, the mines were large and he could just have been forced to work in another area. Gamling hoped that the marshal would be allowed to come back to his regular spot for sleep so that they could continue to confer.

Gamling covertly studied those around him as he struggled to heft an especially large rock into the back of a "carrier," those men unfortunate enough to be chosen to carry the cleared rocks back to the surface. Since the duty of the carrier was so physically demanding, different men were picked each day to serve in that capacity.

The carrier, who resembled little more than a pitiful bag of rags, fell at Gamling's feet. The guard had not seen him fall, so Gamling quickly leaned down to help him up before the man was punished. As he rose, the man whispered three short words. "Five guards today." Then, staggering off under his load, he started back towards the mine opening.

For a moment, Gamling thought he had imagined the entire episode, and then his spirit began to sing as he realized that the spark of freedom and resistance did indeed still flicker within the hearts of these men. Prisoners they might be, beaten, battered and starved, but they were also Riders of Rohan, men of valor and courage beyond measure. And today he had received his first bit of intelligence.

TBC

A/N: I had decided to shelve this storya while backbecause of what I perceived as a lack of interest. However, the story decided it did not want to be shelved. (Go figure!) This chapter is a bit shorter than the usual To the King chapters, but it may take me a little while to get completely back into the swing of the action. I certainly hope you enjoy it! Oh, by the way, this chapter has not been beta checked, so please excuse any errors you find.

The quote at the beginning is from the peom Ulysses. It's my favorite.


	25. It is Long Since We Had Any Hope

**To the King**

**Chapter 25**

**It is Long Since We had Any Hope**

"_To take the first step in faith, you don't have to see the entire staircase; just take the first step." Martin Luther King, Jr._

High in the White Mountains, in the passes above the Snowbourne passage, the Steward of Gondor once more found the one he had caught a glimpse of earlier. Thinking that, perhaps, Éomer had sent out scouts to locate their position and thus win the friendly wager they'd made, Faramir moved silently and almost invisibly through the rocks until he had a clear view of the man.

Faramir was confused. The man he spied was not looking for them…had not even lifted his eyes from the trail, and he was no man of Rohan, but a Dunlending, the ancient enemy of the Rohirrim. What was one of the hill men doing so far south and in the passes so near to a Marshal's hold…a place where the King of Rohan was presently expected?

Alarm flared through his mind. This was not a good situation. As he made his way stealthily towards where the unknown lookout crouched, he heard riders entering the pass below. Faramir quickly scanned the surrounding hills for signs of an ambush, and was relieved to see none.

Looking back down to the riders, he was astounded to see not Éomer and his men, but a mounted, albeit clumsy, troop of Dunlendings. A flaxen haired man, obviously Rohirric, rode in their midst making the situation even more confounding.

Faramir remained hidden, watching to see the lookout's reaction. He did not have long to wait. The scout stood and waved the riders through and then ducked back down, apparently content to wait.

The Steward made his way back to Hamm and Hálith, coming so quietly upon them that both started at his appearance.

Hálith smiled in excitement. "Is it the king's scout? Did he see you?"

It was the farrier who noticed the look on the steward's face.

"What is it, Faramir? What's wrong?"

Hálith's eyes went wide at those words and Faramir sought to reassure him. He grasped the boy's shoulder and squeezed gently while looking him in the eye for a moment. Faramir then turned back to Hamm. "There is a Dunlending scout hidden on the ridge across from us. I also just witnessed a group Dunlendings riding towards Snowbourne. A man of Rohan rode with them.

"This man of Rohan," Hamm asked, "could he have been one of Marshal Garoth's éored?"

Faramir shook his head. "He did not appear to be so. He carried neither spear nor shield, and he was dressed as one of the wild men."

"They could be riding ahead to lay a trap for the king," said Hamm, his breath coming quicker. "We must get to Snowbourne to warn the Marshal and muster his éored." He started to rise, but Faramir's hand on his arm stilled his movement.

"The war is over, Hamm," observed the steward. "This is a strange circumstance, yes, but we should not act in haste. Perhaps these men have been summoned to Snowbourne treat with Garoth." Even as he said the words, Faramir realized that any treaties between Rohan and Dunland would be negotiated in Edoras, not Snowbourne. However, there still could be a perfectly legitimate reason for what he had witnessed. As the Steward of Gondor he could not make assumptions about diplomatic dealings within Rohan. The last thing Aragorn had sent him here for was a diplomatic disaster. "I must think," Faramir muttered.

As he finished speaking another group of riders could be heard entering the pass, though by the sound of it, this group was fewer in number. "Stay down," commanded Faramir. "We cannot let the scout know that we are aware of his presence. I will see if this is the king and what the scout's reaction is." He picked up his bow. "Fear not. If the man makes any threatening move, I will bring him down."

Faramir carefully moved to where he could see both the Dunland scout and the riders. His heart skipped a beat when he saw who now rode below him. Éowyn! How could this be? There was his beloved riding towards he knew not what and accompanied by only a dozen riders. He could not tear his eyes from her face. It took several moments for Faramir to gather his wits and by that time the group had passed beneath him. He quickly made a decision.

Drawing his bow, he meant to make sure that the Dunland scout could never threaten Éowyn. In one practiced movement, Faramir stood and took aim, but the scout was no where to be seen.

As rapidly as he could, Faramir raced back to Hamm and Hálith. "Come on," he shouted, no longer concerned at being seen or heard. "We must get to Snowbourne before Éowyn!"

Before the bewildered pair could respond, Faramir turned and started running along what he hoped was a shortcut to Snowbourne.

O-o-O-o-O

Just as slowly as he had raised it, Barech lowered his right arm from its salute and resumed his rigid stance against the wall. It would not do for any of Gilmóod's men to note the tribute he had just given the marshal. Like servants of all time, the old soldier had learned to be more or less invisible, noticed only when he was needed.

Morning light streamed through the windows cut high into the fortress walls, and though the tables had been cleared of the morning repast some time ago, several of the ruffians still loitered in the great hall enjoying the dramatic scene being played out before them.

Gilmóod, too, could see the pride on Erkenbrand's face, and he did not like it. Beaten and bloodied, draped in chains and nearly naked, the defiant marshal should be groveling at his feet in humiliation, not looking at him with such disdain as he was now. The crafty Gilmóod's eyes narrowed. Since physical torture could not bring about the desired effect, perhaps pain of a different sort should be applied.

"Scaro," Gilmóod drawled, "inform the marshal of the activities of our riders."

Erkenbrand made no outward reaction to Gilmóod's command, but a flash of apprehension touched his mind. He had feared the consequences of his ring being taken by these nefarious brutes. Could it be that it was used against his king or his people?

Scaro sneered at Erkenbrand and jerked on the loop around his neck, forcing the marshal to within inches of his face. He wanted to see the look of despair that was about to enter the man's eye and know that he was the one to put it there. "My men have visited the Eastemnet, _marshal_. To be specific, they have destroyed the Mearas station there. None were left alive, including your precious herds."

Erkenbrand felt as though the very air had been sucked from his lungs, and he could not withhold the groan of disbelief that escaped his bloodied lips.

It was just the reaction that Gilmóod was hoping for, and did much to restore his good mood. He chuckled gleefully and clapped his hands in a foppish way, relishing the evident grief this news caused.

A growl of rage rumbled deep in Erkenbrand's throat. He head butted Scaro, who dropped like a stone, grabbing his shattered nose. Momentarily free of movement, Erkenbrand lunged at Gilmóod. Even weighed down as he was by the chains and weakened by deprivations and beatings, the marshal moved with incredible speed. His hands were still bound behind his back, but he threw himself at Gilmóod, knocking them both to the floor.

Gilmóod and his chair were thrown over backwards, and his head struck the floor, stunning him for a moment. Erkenbrand landed on top of him and likely would now be bashing in his face if the fall had not forced the breath from both of them.

Before Erkenbrand could recover and do any real damage to Gilmóod, Scaro's men dragged him off of the man. Two beefy thugs held the still enraged marshal between them while a third punched him in the stomach. A stiff uppercut to his jaw effectively ended the marshal's protests and sent him spiraling into blackness.

Pandemonium reigned in the room as Gilmóod raged at the two incompetents trying to help him up, and Scaro's men clucked over him like mother hens. Barech had to lower his head to hide the smile threatening to light his face as he watched from his place against the wall. He had not felt so cheered in a long time, but feared now the fate that would await Erkenbrand. Brave men did not last long in Snowbourne any more.

Scaro was still keening in the floor, blood streaming through the hands held against his mutilated appendage, when Gilmóod finally managed to regain his feet, despite the "help" of his two lackeys. "You will regret that," he growled, even though the marshal was unconscious and unable to hear.

A sentry burst through the door, interrupting the chaos. "My lord, our riders have returned, and the Edoras contingent is nearing."

Gilmóod smiled and straightened his rumpled tunic. At long last his careful plans were coming to fruition. He motioned to the two holding the unconscious marshal. "Return him to the mine. Go the back way. If he were to be spied it would ruin my surprise." Looking at Scaro with disgust, he barked at the man to get up. "Bah, you are useless!" he spat as Scaro struggled to his feet. Gilmóod turned to the man beside him. "Get him out of here. The rest of you, make sure our men are in position! We welcome the _King_ of Rohan!"

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer and his éored had ridden hard, reaching Grimslade in only one day. The king had been relieved to see that the holding there was unharmed and seemingly peaceful. When he reached the great house of Marshal Grimborn, he immediately deployed the king's guard to protect the Mearas herd bred and sheltered there for the Lords of the Mark. His own beloved Firefoot had sprung from a Grimslade mare and been specially chosen for him by Marshal Grimbold, who said that he saw the same stubbornness in the stallion as he had always seen in the son of Éomund. Grimbold's death on the Pelennor had been but another bitter blow for Rohan and Éomer.

The éored of Grimslade, most of which had been granted furlough while their marshal was in Edoras, was quickly recalled and reassembled. Éomer himself explained the situation to the captains and led patrols into the hills surrounding the Westfold holding.

After assuring himself that the herd was as secure as they could make it, he left a part of the king's guard there, over-riding the objections of his acting chief of guard, and rode for Edoras before the first rays of light had even graced the majestic peaks to their west. There he would be in a better position to receive the reports from the Marshals and oversee the situation.

As they rode, Éomer ran his mind over and over the few facts he knew. How could an orc band the size of one that would be required to overtake an entire station have roamed their lands unseen? In the years of evil, when Sauron had gathered his strength and forces behind the black gates of Mordor, orcs had stolen through the Mark seeking the sleekest and most beautiful of the black stallions. They would take these beautiful and beloved horses into Mordor to be used by the dark one. It disgusted Éomer to think of any of their noble mounts so perverted and used.

But Sauron was defeated. Éomer had been there himself to see it. He had led what was left of their forces to the Black Gates fully prepared to die in order to divert Sauron's attention from the halflings. But he had not died. Instead he watched as the tower crumbled and the light of the eye disappeared. Then the most amazing of thing happened; the ground under the evil servants of the dark one had started to drop as into a pit, swallowing whole great numbers of them. Those that escaped that fate had fled into the hills and they had not a sufficient number of forces to pursue them.

Now the mind of the king reeled. Had those foul beings somehow banded together in some unknown corner of Middle Earth? Were they even now waging war on the Mark? Why else destroy the herds, the most valuable asset possessed of Rohan? The very survival of Rohan depended upon stopping this evil and protecting the Mearas.

O-o-O-o-O

Twice more, after the passing of information from the first carrier, Gamling tried to make contact with one of the chosen as he loaded the cleared rocks onto the man's back. Working now in the deepest, darkest part of the mine, he struggled to maintain his own will by looking for it in others. The first time he was met by a fearful shaking of the man's head as he glanced quickly at the back of the guard, as though expecting the lash to fall upon him at any minute. The second time was most disconcerting for Gamling.

Over and over he ran the scene through his mind as he labored at the monotonous and backbreaking job. The carrier had shuffled his way to where Gamling worked, kneeling and ready to receive his load of rock for transportation back to the surface. Furtively Gamling glanced at the guard, assuring himself that the man's attention was occupied elsewhere. Bending down close to the carrier's head he whispered, "What is your name?" It was what happened next that the chief of knights could not erase from his mind's eye.

The carrier had raised his head with a look of astonishment. He was one of the younger men that Gamling had seen working in this cursed place, and there was a haunted, dead look to his face. He paused for only a moment and then muttered brokenly, "We have no names here."

Unable to stop himself and unmindful of possible retribution, Gamling had grasped the man's arm and whispered, "Have faith."

All else around them seemed to fade as something flickered in the dead eyes. "It is long since we had any hope. My name is Raolf."

And then the lash had fallen over and over upon their backs until they were both driven to their knees and panting. But this time, when the carrier struggled to his feet the eyes that he turned to Gamling were no longer dead. A tiny spark had been lit in them. Whether that spark would survive to spread was still a matter of doubt, but Gamling dared hope that it would be so. If he could but strike enough tiny sparks, then perhaps the flame of hope and courage would once again be kindled within their hearts.

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn was cheered when at last the narrow, rocky passage through the mountain opened up and she was greeted by the vision of the Snowbourne fortress and the smattering of small houses around it. The log hewn house with the huge porch running its length was a commanding sight situated as it was at the crest of a small hill. The grade sloped slightly down to where the stables and corral were located. Beyond that was the market place with the homes of the people located beyond. So glad was she at the prospect of her journey's end that she failed to notice the unnatural stillness of the village.

That unusual aspect was not unnoticed by her guard however, and the captain held up his arm, halting their progress. His first inkling of warning had come when they progressed through the mountain passes without so much as the glimpse of a sentry.

"What is it, Léoflic?" Éowyn asked. "Why are we stopping?"

"A moment, my lady," hedged the guard. "The king has entrusted me with your safety. I wish only to scrutinize the surroundings. Something seems amiss here."

Éowyn then looked closer at the deserted vista. "Look, see that sorrel in the corral? That is Marshal Erkenbrand's Lancer. I would know her anywhere. Marshal Garoth has taken ill. Perhaps the people simply mourn the laying low of their lord. Let us hurry; I bear medicines for him. We may yet be in time to restore him." Without waiting, Éowyn urged her mount forward. She had been anxious to see whether or not her skills could be of use, and the time was at hand. The guard had no choice but to follow their lady.

Éowyn dismounted by the steep steps to the porch. Retrieving her medicine bag from the saddle, she hurried up the steps and opened the huge front door.

Léoflic was grumbling to himself as he hurried to dismount and follow. "Bilewit, stay with the horses; the rest of you come with me." The tall red-headed guard took the steps two at a time as he rushed to accompany Lady Éowyn.

The inside was dim, blinding their eyes momentarily after the brightness of the sunlight. Léoflic blinked rapidly to adjust his eyesight. As the room came into focus, the guard was chilled by the vision before him. Éowyn was being held by large, dark haired man. The lady could not even struggle, for a long vicious knife was pressed into the tender flesh of her neck. Léoflic's breath caught as a drop of blood trickled down the lady's throat, and he drew his sword, ready to rush forward.

"I would drop your weapons," drawled the man, "or you will watch the lady die." As if to emphasize his point, he drew deeper on the blade, eliciting a small moan of pain from Éowyn.

Léoflic quickly lowered his arm and dropped his sword. Behind him he could hear the clattering as the others followed suit.

Gilmóod motioned his men to retrieve the weapons and bind the warriors' hands. Once they were secured he lowered the knife and sheathed it.

Éowyn immediately began to struggle, but Gilmóod forced her arm painfully behind her, turning her to where she was pressed against him and he could leer into her face. He smiled when her eyes widened in recognition. "I see you remember me, Lady Éowyn. That is good. I want you to know from where your doom comes."

At Gilmóod's words Léoflic began to struggle frantically. "Touch her not, you coward!" He was dragged from the room screaming curses down upon Gilmóod and all who aided him.

As the warriors were taken from the room, Gilmóod picked up a strand of Eowyn's hair and breathed deeply of the fresh scent. "Perhaps there is a better use for you. I have been denied my prize, but with this little bird in my cage, I may yet draw Éomer into my snare."

"Éomer?" Éowyn breathed. "No!"

"Yes, my sweet," crooned Gilmóod. "And when I am finished with him, there will be just the two of us."

TBC

A/N I want to thank all who are reading or have left reveiws for this story. Your feedback is invaluable and keeps me going on those days when I want to throw in the towel and give up.


	26. Everyday Actions in Everyday Lives

To The King

Chapter 26

Everyday Actions in Everyday Lives

"_Every action of our lives touches on some chord that will vibrate in eternity." Edwin Hubbel Chappin_

Dageth was making his way towards the mountain passes and away from Snowbourne. Twice he had almost been discovered, but his quick action and the laziness of the guards protected him. The route the young scout had been forced to take led him perilously close to the mine entrance, and what he witnessed there was enough to sicken him.

Brutal guards worked over skeletal, broken men in long chained lines while even more battered men carried rock from deep within the earth. Dageth paused for a few moments where he hid hoping to catch sight of Marshal Erkenbrand or any from his éored, but he did not seen any men he recognized. To know that they were there, within the mines as Barech had told him, and that they were out of his reach was maddening.

His blood boiled as he watched a woman being pawed and groped by a couple of guards. She was apparently one of the women forced to carry buckets of food to the prisoners. The buckets had dropped and spilt when she was waylaid by the pair. The other guards leered and laughed and ignored her screams. Sickened, Dageth could only watch as the struggling woman was dragged into a shed near to the mind entrance.

The young scout had to force himself to move. If he stayed any longer he would be unable to resist the woman's piteous cries and would die in the attempt to free her. That he could not do. His duty to king and country overrode anything else at this point. Vowing to avenge what he had witnessed, Dageth ran doggedly, setting his teeth against the searing pain the jostling caused his shoulder.

Had he but stayed his flight a bit longer, he would have seen his marshal being dragged towards the cavernous opening. The pair hefting the dead weight of the man, for he had been knocked unconscious, was attracted by the sounds emanating from the shed. The dark headed one on the right, a man of Dunland, gave an appraising look to his compatriot. "Wanna have some fun?"

"We're supposed to drop this scum off at the mines," replied the other without conviction. "However," he added, with a gleam in his eye, "if we hang him from that post over there, he won't be going anywhere, and we can deliver him once we've had our fun."

"We'll have to be quick about it," cautioned the Dunlending, "Scaro can't miss us or we'll join those slaves in the hole."

"Scaro," scoffed his partner, however softly, so as not to be overheard, "is still sniveling over his broken nose. Gilmóod was not happy with him. We might have the chance to move up, as it were."

Altering their course slightly, they dragged Erkenbrand over to the whipping post, which had been conveniently moved close to the mines. The wooden pillar was well used and streaked with dried blood. The two men stepped onto the wooden steps positioned on each side of the post and, lifting the chains, they hooked the unconscious marshal's wrists to the iron support at the top so that he was once again hanging by the shackles. Erkenbrand was a tall man, but even with his great height, his feet barely touched the ground. Fresh blood began to ooze from the man's already tortured wrists, trickling down his arms in scarlet streams. A moan of agony indicated that he was beginning to surface from the blessed black of oblivion where he now resided.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer was pacing the golden hall like a caged animal, equal parts of fury and frustration written on his countenance. He had returned to Edoras expecting to find a missive from Erkenbrand or Gamling informing him of the conditions at Snowbourne, but no such message awaited him. Instead, there was a small delegation from the city complaining about some nonsense over a rooster crowing too early in the morning. "A rooster!" Éomer growled, to no one in particular. He turned his gaze to Liam, who leaned against one of the carved posts with arms and legs crossed, idly watching him. "Half the mearas of the Mark have been slaughtered, and I have to listen to a delegation complain about a rooster!"

Liam just smiled and nodded sympathetically to his old friend. Éomer always paced when he was working things out in his mind. Like as not, the King would reach his conclusions soon and they would be taking some action or another.

No further reports of trouble at any of the breeding stations had been received, and the éoreds had been dispersed to see that the stations were secured. This left much of the grazing lands and homesteads unprotected, but there was little they could do about that now.

Éomer walked over and sat down on the throne, or more correctly, he perched on the edge of it with one elbow resting on his knee and his chin on the supporting fist. With his other hand, he unconsciously massaged the long healed scar on his leg. Liam roused himself from where he leaned against the post. This was progress. Liam had watched this same progression, in many different forms, countless times and knew that Éomer had just about reached a decision. Shivering slightly from the chill in the hall, Liam walked over to stoke the fire in the central fire pit.

The doors to the great hall opened, admitting a flash of the setting western sun. Silhouetted against the light was the one who had been summoned. Pausing only a moment to thank the doorward, Felor began his journey forward. The distinctive thumping sound of his crutches echoed in the vast hollow overhead as the man made his way forward on his one leg.

"Liam, ask Hildegard for some ale," Éomer said softly as the Felor neared. The king rose and met the man as he approached, indicating that they would seat themselves at one of the tables lining the side wall. "Please sit, Felor," Éomer pulled a chair to the head of the table so that he could sit nearer to the wain rider. He wanted frank words from the man and did not want the distance of the table betwixt them.

Felor, of course, would not seat himself until the king had taken his own seat. The man grunted slightly as he settled on the bench and propped his crutches against the table.

Dust motes and smoke from the fire floated in the shafts of light streaming through the windows high above them as Éomer regarded the man before him. "You rode with Marshal Garoth's éored before you were injured, did you not?"

"I did, my lord," the man confirmed, "though it was some years ago. Garoth and I were young men then, and full of a youth's recklessness. When orcs attacked us, and one near cleaved off my leg, it was Marshal Garoth that jumped from his horse – in the midst of the battle, no less – to take down the orc before he could finish the job on me. The Marshal saved my life, he did. He cut off the rest of my leg himself too and then tied off the stump until I could be brought back to Snowbourne. My cousin, Margeth, sewed me right up."

Éomer leaned forward, placing his elbows onto the table, intrigued by the man before him. "Why did you come to Edoras? Why did you not stay in Snowbourne?"

"Because, Sire, I could not bear the pity I saw in the eyes of my éored...my friends, and I did not want to be a burden to the Marshal."

Liam walked over to the table carrying a tray with three horn mugs of ale. Thankfully, Hildegard had also heaped on slabs of thick, crusty bread, some wedges of a mild cheese and a crock full of butter. By the looks him, Felor could use the food. As Liam sat on the other side of the man, Éomer leaned back in his chair as he thought over what the man had just told him. The king motioned for Felor to help himself

"Oh no, my lord," objected Felor. "No one must eat before the king is served," he declared.

"Could you not just consider that I am another rider in the éoreds?" asked Éomer resignedly, as Liam began to place some bread and cheese before the monarch so that Felor would feel at ease. The formality of office came hard to Éomer. Théodred had been groomed for this, not Éomer; he would have been content to ride the Mark as Théodred King's First Marshal for the rest of his days, but it was not to be so. Now he seemed doomed to settle disputes between arguing neighbors.

"I could, my lord," Felor said, interrupting the musing of the king with a soft smile, "but I will not. I have seen and survived the many long years of war and privation."

Éomer leaned forward again, intent upon the man's words and what they could possibly mean.

"In times of war or in times of crisis, people and nations need normalcy...need routine and traditions to cling to more than at any other time. They need to attend the everyday things in everyday ways. The formality of protocol reminds them that their king is still in charge, that the burden of 'figuring it all out' is not theirs, and that whatever comes he will lead them through it. And," he added with a twinkle in his eyes, "strife within the city is not always a bad thing; it works to make people forget that times are hard when they are arguing about trifles...such as roosters."

Liam snorted softly. "Then Edoras should be well distracted." As if on cue, the errant bird crowed loudly, causing all three men to smile. "I'll give him this," laughed Liam, "he certainly has a set of lungs on him. Proud old thing, isn't he?"

Éomer's intense brown eyes bored into Felor's as though he sought to read the man's soul. "How did you get to be so wise, my friend?" wondered Éomer, feeling suddenly very young and inexperienced.

"Practice, my liege," chuckled the man, "...and a lot of living." Felor then placed his gnarled hand against the king's chest. "No matter what doubts enter your heart, Éomer King, the blood of Eorl rushes through your veins, and that is no small thing. You are here," he gestured around the great hall, "because you belong here. Your people will follow you, sire, because we believe in you. Now," he finished, taking a slice of bread and a slab of cheese, "why don't you tell me why you have asked an old man to your table?"

Éomer swallowed, the muscle in his jaw working as he controlled his emotions. The simple, yet wise words of the wain driver had humbled him and filled him with resolve. "I need you to tell me all you know about Marshal Garoth."

O-o-O-o-O

Despite his all out sprint, it soon became apparent that he could not possibly reach Snowbourne before Éowyn. Faramir stopped running, leaning over with his hands propped on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. A few paces behind him, Hamm and Hálith quickly caught up, and like Faramir, were now panting as they rested their labored lungs.

"Faramir..." Hamm gasped between breaths, "what was it? What did you see?"

Faramir now regretted his panicked dash. It was clear that Éowyn was far ahead of them by now, and clear thinking was needed if they were to assess the threat...if there even was one. The Steward forced himself to think rationally, as he had been trained.

Sitting down on a boulder, Faramir quickly told the pair what he had seen.

"Where was the king?" asked Hálith.

"I know not," replied Faramir, shaking his head. "I saw only Éowyn and a dozen or so warriors. I fear they are riding into a trap."

"What must we do?" Hamm asked resolutely.

"First we must ascertain whether there is any true danger to Éowyn or the riders. What we have now, though alarming, is only conjecture." Faramir's head jerked to towards the Snowbourne trail. "Down," he whispered, while motioning with his hand. He crouched behind the boulder where he had been sitting.

Hamm pulled Hálith behind him, shielding him with his body, as they quickly moved off the trail to seek cover. The pair could now hear what had alerted Faramir. Someone neared...someone attempting to move fast and stealthily.

Faramir, survivor of many such skirmishes, timed his leap perfectly and brought down the runner before the man even knew what had hit him. Faramir hit the man and rolled with him so that the steward would come to a stop on top of the man and with his knife at the enemies' throat.

"Faramir, no!" Hamm called. "It's Dageth!"

Faramir stayed his hand, but didn't release his hold. His breathing slowed as the red haze of battle faded from behind his eyes and he took in the details of the man he held, from the pain filled eyes to the fading bruises and the bleeding shoulder.

"Lord Faramir?" the scout said softly, "it's me, Dageth, my lord...Dageth."

"Dageth?" Faramir repeated. He released the scout and sat back on his knees. "What are you doing here?"

Dageth grimaced and gave the steward a wry look, "I could ask you the same thing...my lord," he added after a flash of pain took his breath.

Hamm moved from his hiding place and knelt beside the pair. "Here, let me take a look at that shoulder." He pulled aside some of the bandaging to assess the injury, giving Faramir a chance to gather himself. "This is a nasty wound. What happened?"

"Arrow," answered the scout. "They didn't want me leaving." He hissed when Hamm probed the wound too closely. Attempting to rise he panted, "I must get to Edoras to warn the king."

That got Faramir's attention. "What is happening at Snowbourne?"

"I don't know all of it, but a man named Gilmóod has taken over. He holds the men as slaves, forcing them to work in mines in the hills. He is laying a trap for the king."

Faramir paled. "Éowyn has fallen into that trap," he murmured to himself. He looked quickly at Dageth. "Numbers...can you give me an idea of numbers?"

Dageth shook his head. "I was kept alive and hidden by an old couple. I saw twenty five or so on the day that we were attacked."

Faramir considered his words. "We saw, perhaps, forty ride in earlier. They were men of Dunland."

"Dunland?" breathed Dageth, his confused eyes going back and forth between Faramir and Hamm. "I saw none of the hill men when I was there."

"There is more going on here than we know," said Faramir. "We must proceed with caution. Dageth, begin at the beginning and tell me everything you know."

TBC

A/N: Thank you for your patience!


	27. Sufficient Unto the Day

**To The King**

**Chapter 27**

**Sufficient Unto the Day**

"_Don't let yesterday use up too much of today." Cherokee Indian Proverb_

Éomer and Liam still sat at the table long after Felor left. Evening had fled and the lights of Edoras flickered in the darkness. The stars were brilliant over the tranquil earth as a waning Ithil began the slow journey across the heavens. The wind carried the chill of the mountain snows with it, but inside the Meduseld the fire kept it warm and cozy.

Liam watched Éomer as he absentmindedly chewed on a piece of buttered bread.

"What has you so vexed, my lord?" the Marshal finally asked. "Surly it is good news that we have had no reports of attacks on the stations."

Éomer stopped chewing, swallowed, and then looked at Liam. "What you say is true. However, I expected to have word from Snowbourne by now. Éowyn said that she would leave the medical supplies and come right back." He shook his head. "I should not have let her continue on to Snowbourne."

Liam raised an eyebrow as though to question the sanity of that statement. "It has been my experience that once Éowyn makes up her mind about a course of action it is nigh on to impossible to change it."

Éomer rolled his eyes at his friend. "Since she disobeyed a direct order from Uncle Théoden, I don't suppose she would be inclined to obey any of mine." He could not help but smile at his friend. "She is a shield maiden, after all, and the one who slew the witch king." The smile faded as memories of the Pelennor washed across his memory bringing a frown to his handsome features. Éomer sighed deeply...sadly. "What do you remember most about it, Liam? About the Pelennor?" he clarified.

Liam looked at him for a moment, not really wanting to remember anything about that dreadful day, but unwilling to say so to Éomer. He did not have to think hard about the question for one thing readily stood out in his mind about it and likely would for the rest of his life. "I remember how the ground shook when the Mûmakil charged. Béma's blood, I hope I never have to feel anything like that again." The warrior visibly shuddered at the thought, unashamed of his reaction in the presence of one who was there and experienced the same horrors.

Éomer nodded his head, still staring into the fire. The light reflected on his face and hair, highlighting the deep furrow between his eyebrows. "For me it was the noises," he said softly. "I hear them when I close my eyes, as though they will never leave my head. Screams, shouts, the horses thundering, the curses, and the moans of the dying..." he remembered them all as though it were yesterday.

Liam placed a hand on Éomer's shoulder. "Lay the dust of the Pelennor tonight, my friend. The problems you have for today are sufficient; do not seek ones from the past as well." The young Marshal was every bit as tall as his king, but with the dark hair and grey eyes that were a legacy of his Gondorian mother. He was the first friend that Éomer made when the boy and his sister were brought to Edoras after their mother's death, and that friendship had remained true through all the years of hardship and war.

A soft giggle caught the king's attention and he lifted his eyes to Liam. "The children?" he whispered.

Liam smiled and nodded his head. "They are stalking you from along the wall," he cautioned softly.

Before Éomer could respond, the seven giggling children descended upon them, begging for a story before bedtime.

"I'm sorry, m'lord," apologized Berga, hurrying into the room. "The rascals got away whilst I was turning down their beds."

"All is well, Berga," soothed the king, hefting a giggling Gandafin over his shoulder. "You should not be here so late in your condition! Go home, rest...Liam and I will see the young ones put to bed."

"Are you sure they will not be too much trouble?" The woman was concerned about getting the seven to bed, but she was very tired tonight.

"I believe we can handle them," laughed Éomer, standing with Gandafin still over his shoulder and Márta and Meela hanging on each leg. "What think you, Marshal? Can we see this lot off?"

Liam pretended to consider the question. "They are a handful, sire, but I believe we can handle them."

"Doorward!" he king called.

The doorward immediately opened the front door and bowed to Éomer.

"See Mistress Berga home safely," ordered the king.

"Yes, my lord," bowed the doorward again.

"Well, if you are sure," Berga said hesitantly. "Thank you, my lord, and good night to you." She pulled her shawl more closely around her shoulders and followed the doorward, glancing back nervously as she went.

Catching her eye, Éomer motioned her off with small movements of his hand. "Go," he mouthed.

"Her condition?" asked Liam, with a smile, after the door had closed.

"It's a miracle!" avowed Thela again, pulling on the marshal's tunic. It had become her favorite phrase.

Liam swept the giggling little girl into his arms as they walked towards the side door of the great hall. "A miracle you say?"

"Someone made a baby with Mistress Berga, but it was not Farmeer," the little girl said seriously. "I think it was..."

"Thela!" shouted Meela, "Mistress Hildegard said we are _not_ to be talking about that to the men folk!"

Before either of the men could respond to that bit of information, Éomer stopped and cocked his head to one side. Eying the four little boys he asked, "What is that noise I hear?"

Eight very round eyes stared back at the king, but not one mouth opened. The king walked over and paused outside the door of the room where he had spent so many hours as a boy, Théodred's room.

"I believe I hear barking," offered Liam helpfully, "quite a lot of barking, as a matter of fact!"

Gandafin could not stand the silence. "They were lonely in the stables, sire! We thought they would like to sleep with us and then they would not be lonely!"

Éomer sat the boy onto his feet beside the other three boys. "Do you hear the racket they are making? They are too young to be away from their mother and are likely very hungry this moment. Come, we will take them all back. And remember," he paused to give them each a long look for emphasis, "they are not to sleep in your rooms, but in the stables. Have I your word on that?"

All four boys nodded their heads vigorously.

Éomer opened the door, and five hungry and excited puppies came tumbling out. "Liam, if you will tuck the girls in and tell them a story, I will accompany this rabble back to the stables."

"Tell the little girls a story?" stammered Liam quickly.

"Aye," laughed Éomer, as he led his brood down the hallway, "and nothing that will scare them!"

Liam looked down at the three angelic faces. The Marshal was completely out of his league here. "Er, um, let me see. Which room is yours?"

The girls led him to the room next door.

"This is my bed," squealed Thela, wiggling down from Liam's grasp and then jumping up and down on the bed as though to prove her ownership.

"What is this?" asked Liam, picking up a soft ribbon from the bedside table, as he sat down on Thela's bed. The little girl immediately threw her arms around his neck from behind him.

"Mistress Elena taught us how to sew flowers on ribbons for our hair," explained Márta, coming to stand by the marshal's knee. "That one is mine." She smiled shyly as Liam admired the lopsided flower and praised her on her stitching.

"Here is mine," said Meela, quickly showing the Marshal her work and receiving due praise from the warrior.

"Here now, what is this?" sputtered Liam as Thela began stroking his hair from where she stood on the bed behind him.

"I am just making you pretty," responded the little girl seriously. "We always brush out our hair before we go to bed. I will fix yours while you tell us our story." She sounded very motherly.

"Tell us a story about elves," asked Meela. "I love elves."

"You have never seen an elf," corrected Márta.

"I can still love them! Can't I, Marshal?" asked the little girl, crawling into Liam's lap.

"You certainly may," laughed the warrior as the child made herself comfortable. "Now, how to start..."

"Once upon a time..." instructed Thela as she worked. "That is how Mistress Hildegard begins all her stories."

"Very well then, for I am not a brave enough man to cross Mistress Hildegard," replied Liam, as Márta settled down on the bed beside him. She linked her arm through his and leaned her head against his shoulder as he began. "Once upon a time..."

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer, accompanied by the four boys and five puppies walked into the king's own stables. Entering the huge edifice, he paused for a moment to enjoy the peace of the hushed stable. It had always been one of his favorite places to come and he found it still could work its magic on his burdened mind when, as it always did, the smell of hay and horse soothed his senses.

Hearing her pups, the mother dog barked from the back of the stable and the hungry pups immediately took off for their meal. In their excitement the pups were falling all over themselves and each other, much to the delight of the boys.

"They will be safely cared for by their mother," said the king. "Now, let us get you four back to the Meduseld and into your beds, for those pups will be full of energy in the morning and in need of play."

"Can't we sleep here?" asked Tredin. "I love it in here, and we could keep the puppies warm."

Eomer shook his head. "No, I think not, but I understand why you would want to stay here. It's my favorite place too. Come, the faster you are asleep, the faster you will be back here to play."

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth led the way to an abandoned cave in the mountains above Snowbourne and even above the level of the mines. It was too dark to see much by the time they neared Snowbourne, so they holed up in the cave to plan strategy.

While Hamm built a small fire, Dageth drew a map in the dust of the floor for Faramir marking the positions he had observed.

"Barech told me that the men are forced to sleep in unused areas of the mines, not seeing the rays of anor for days at a time," said the scout.

"This Barech," said Faramir, "could he help us?"

Dageth shook his head doubtfully, "I do not think so. He is an old man...a server in the main house. It was he and his wife that removed the arrow from my back and hid me while I recovered. I could not have made it without them, my lord, and I would not want to put them in any more danger."

Faramir nodded, "Then we will not endanger them. Tell me again how many guards you witnessed at the mine entrance."

"What do you have in mind, Faramir? asked Hamm. "We are only three men here."

"Four," said Hálith. "I will help you."

Faramir smiled and put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "You are a true son of Rohan, Hálith. I have an important task for you, but I must warn you, it is not without risks."

"You have but to ask, my lord," replied the boy earnestly.

"You remember the things I taught you about tracking? A first light you must make your way back to where we left the horses. It will be difficult. Do you think you can find them?

"Yes, I can find them," declared Hálith. "I know I can."

"Good," nodded Faramir. "Ride to Harrowdale with all haste, and report all you have heard here to Marshal Fingol. He will get word to the King."

"Would it not be faster for me to ride straight to Edoras?" asked Hálith. "I could lead the King back here."

Faramir shook his head. "No, Hálith, you do yourself credit, but it is almost a day's journey to Harrowdale and a fresh mount from there will make better time. Here," he showed the boy the drawing on the cave floor, "memorize this map that Dageth has drawn so that you can remake it for the Marshal. Try to remember everything you have heard so that he has the fullest picture of what is happening here. Lead the warriors back by the mountain passes we used, Hálith, not by the direct route, for that will guarded. It is important that you not be seen by any of the sentries."

"I will elude them," vowed the boy. "You can count on me, my lord."

"We will meet you here, unless..." Faramir frowned and glanced at the other two men. Every instinct in him wanted to storm into the fortress and demand that Éowyn and the others be released, but he had to be realistic. He sighed in frustration. "Tell him that we will scout the entire area to see what further information we can learn. It is apparent that we cannot free Éowyn or anyone else with just three men, but we can, perhaps, find a weakness in their defenses that can be exploited."

O-o-O-o-O

The throbbing came in waves, dragging him from a dark place he did not want to leave, for darkness meant oblivion. More than just nothingness, it was also the absence of the mind-numbing pain wracking his body. But the body has its own clock, and tortured as this body was, the lungs were screaming for oxygen. When the body is suspended by the arms for such a long time the muscles begin to cramp and the lungs deprived of the life giving fuel send messages to the brain. By pushing on his toes the Marshal could lift himself enough to drag in a few precious breaths before fatigue buckled his knees and he sank back down. How many times he repeated the process he was unsure, but the cycle continued: pain, stretch, breath, collapse, blessed oblivion.

The next time Erkenbrand struggled from the nothingness, he was not hanging by his arms as he had been all day; he was lying on bare hard ground. Slowly his body began to communicate with his brain, registering varying degrees of pain and injury. But wait, something cool touched his forehead...a soothing touch in a sea of agony.

A disembodied voice penetrated his foggy thoughts. "Can you hear me?"

Something touched his brow and he instinctively shrunk away, for every touch of late had been one of cruelty. A moan escaped his throat.

"Shush," the voice soothed. "You are safe for now."

A trickle of water touched his battered and cracked lips and he greedily sought more, his parched tongue running over the lips seeking even a drop more.

"Here, drink slowly...slowly."

Erkenbrand's brain was beginning to function on a higher level, reaching past the pain to process information. The touch was perceived as a kind one, the voice as Gamling, and the water as life giving.

Gamling silently breathed a sigh of relief as the marshal's eyes fluttered open. He had truly thought that the man would never again open those piercing green eyes upon arda. "Welcome back. Do not scare me like that again."

Erkenbrand forced his eyes to focus, not helped by the dim light, upon Gamling's face. He snorted weakly. "I have awakened to fairer faces before, I can tell you that. Why could you not be some soft maiden?"

"It is good to know you have not lost your famous sense of humor," replied Gamling wryly.

The Marshal tried to raise his head, only to be pushed gently back down by the chief of knights. "Stay down, stubborn one. You are fortunate to be alive."

"C, cold," murmured Erkenbrand as his body began to shake.

Gamling pulled a cloak over the man, though it was pitifully inadequate to cover his bulk. "It is likely shock from all you have been through. This is all I have to cover you with, I fear."

Erkenbrand nodded his head as he continued to shiver. "You are a comfort to me, old friend. I can think of no better company in which to breathe my last." He had to stop to recover his breath, for speaking required far more strength than the marshal had left. "I only regret that I failed my king."

"Do not speak like that," demanded Gamling. "I will not let you die; do you hear me?"

But Erkenbrand was beyond hearing anything at that moment...slipping once again into oblivion.

"Raolf," Gamling called softly, but frantically. "Help me! We must keep him warm or he will not again see the light of day."

Raolf immediately pulled his own threadbare cloak over the marshal to join the one Gamling had covered him with. "It would help to rub his arms and legs for warmth, but there is scarcely a spot that is not injured, and it would only cause more harm." The warrior did the next best thing that he could think of. He stretched out full length beside the unconscious marshal, giving the man his own body warmth.

Seeing the younger man's idea, Gamling matched his movement, thus sandwiching the marshal between then. They would keep him as warm as possible and pray that Béma grant them mercy and spare the marshal's life.

As he closed his exhausted eyes, Gamling had to wonder whether or not that prayer would be better spent in sending his battered friend to the hallowed halls of his forefathers rather than seeking to keep him here where it seemed that only more torment awaited.

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer had the little boys all settled down in their beds and was just finishing up with their story. He had, at their request, told them about the time Théoden taught him to ride. It was their favorite story, and Éomer could see their eyes light up as he would describe how it felt to thunder across the plains. He already had plans to gift each of these boys with a fine mount and to personally teach them how to ride. However, no mention was made of that tonight or they would never get to sleep.

"Good night, boys; Béma's blessing upon you as you sleep," said the king, as he closed the door. Éomer decided to peek in at the girls, for he might possibly have to rescue Liam. He smiled to himself as he thought about Liam attempting to tell a suitable bedtime story to three little girls. The idea of Liam, who could strangle an orc with one hand and was the fiercest warrior with whom Éomer had ever fought, telling bedtime stories was remarkable! On second thought, perhaps he should have sent Liam to the barn with the boys and settled the girls himself.

He opened the door just a crack and burst out laughing at the sight.

"What?" asked Liam innocently, from where he sat on the floor beside the bed. "You've never seen a man get his hair braided before?"

Meela was sitting in his lap showing the warrior how to braid her doll's hair while Márta and Thela were on the bed working on his.

"Since all is well, I will wish you a good night."

"Good night, King Éomer," the girls said in unison.

"Do not keep them up too late," cautioned Éomer as he closed the door. Perhaps he would tell Liam about the ribbons the girls had braided through his hair in the morning...or perhaps not. He walked back to the great hall with his heart considerably lightened.

TBC


	28. Though Much is Taken

**To the King**

**Chapter 28**

**Though Much is Taken**

"_Though much is taken much abides, and though we are not now that strength which in old days moved heaven and earth, that which we are, we are...one equal temper of heroic hearts made weak by time and fate, but strong in will to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." Tennyson_

_**Snowbourne**_

The room where Éowyn was kept prisoner was on the second floor of the great house. The lone window was barred – she checked that first thing – and the door remained locked except when Margeth was allowed in to bring her food or tend her personal needs. Éowyn had searched for anything that might be used as a means of defense, but the room was obviously prepared with prisoners in mind. Besides the bed in the corner, which was adequate if not completely soft, the only other furniture was a table and chair. An oil lamp burned on the table, casting long shadows along the walls.

Éowyn paced the confines of the room, frustration and anger at herself warring for supremacy. Why had she not listened to Léoflic? Now all the men with her were Béma knew where and a trap was being laid for Éomer. Her one ray of hope was that Gilmóod had not mentioned Faramir. Surely he would have enjoyed throwing it into her face if he held her intended prisoner as well?

She stopped her pacing as she considered another, more disturbing thought. What if Gilmóod held Faramir prisoner and did not know who it was he held? Or what if he had already been killed? Éowyn sat down quickly on the side of the bed, as that last, unthinkable thought entered her head. How could this be happening? They had all seen so much death; now was supposed to be the time of renewal in their lives.

"Éowyn..."

So softly was the name whispered that she thought for a moment to be dreaming of her heart's desire.

"Éowyn...here, the window!"

She _had_ heard it! Éowyn jumped up from the bed and ran to the window. She sank to her knees in relief, for there, perched outside and hanging on for dear life, was Faramir.

"Faramir!" She put her hands through the barred window opening to touch those of her beloved. "How did you get up here?" she cried, glancing fearfully at the black void below.

"Are you well?" Faramir demanded, looking her over quickly. A growl escaped him when he beheld the cut to her throat made by Gilmóod's knife. "Who did that?"

The ice in his voice took her breath away. Never had she heard Faramir sound so...lethal. She knew, of course, that as a Ranger he had dispatched many enemies in his time, but somehow she never connected that part of him with her kind and gentle Faramir.

"It is only a scratch, my love. I am prisoner, but so far I am unharmed. It is Éomer for whom I fear. You must not let him ride into this trap. Gilmóod means to kill him." So relieved was she to see Faramir alive and to pass on the information that could save her brother's life that the words just tumbled from her.

"Shush, love, back away from the window," Faramir urged. "The guard approaches."

Éowyn flattened herself against the wall beside the window holding her breath and waiting to hear the guard raise the alarm. She was nearly beside herself with worry when Faramir once more appeared in the opening.

"All clear," he said softly.

"How did you keep from being seen?" she breathed, unable to bear much more suspense.

A soft chuckle came from the darkness. "A ranger learns how to become one with the darkness. It is our best ally."

"Oh Faramir," Éowyn choked.

The steward quickly put his hand through the bars to cup her face. "Hold firm, love. I will not forsake you. I needed to make sure you were unharmed, and now must withdraw. These vines are not strong enough to support me much longer and may be needed again."

"What can I do to help?"

"Listen to the men talking, if you can. Any information you can give me about numbers or placement will help. Take no chances though."

"They have not let me out of the room yet, but I will see what can be learned from the woman who comes to bring my meals. How can I get the information to you?"

"I will return," he said softly. "Have faith, my love. We will prevail."

So quickly did he disappear that she could almost have believed she imagined the whole episode. Her knees suddenly weakened, Éowyn slid down the wall to sit in the floor closing her eyes as reality once again reared its head and the memory of his presence evaporated like a fog fleeing before the sunlight. "I love you, Faramir," she whispered.

O-o-O-o-O

Darkness was also ally to another who moved stealthily through the gloom of night. He moved not with the fluidness of his youth, but still his skills had not completely fled with the passing of the years. Barech was rather pleased with himself, if the truth be known. The guards had become lax, convinced that they had the prisoners so dispirited and exhausted that they posed no threat in the night. More and more he had noticed them lingering over their ale in the great hall.

Ever since witnessing the disgusting spectacle that was made of Marshal Erkenbrand, the fire of resistance had burned in his belly. Barech had carefully counted the men in the hall, and convinced tonight was the night to make a move, had rushed home after his work shift to put his plan into motion.

Margeth was staying nights in the room next to the Lady Éowyn's room to be available in case she was needed, so Barech would not be forced to make up a story that would put his wife's mind at ease. He was doing what he had to do, after all, and there was nothing to be gained by arguing. Old he might be, but he was still a man and still considered himself a Rider of Rohan.

Cautiously, he slipped by the guard who slumbered outside the mine entrance and made his way inside. Once he was well past the opening, he risked lighting the small candle he had brought. None of the guards slept inside the tunnels, which were dark and confining. Besides, they felt sure the exhausted skeletons could do little but sleep. To a man bent on secrecy, even the small light of the candle seemed like a beacon in the darkness, but in truth it did little against the overwhelming blackness.

Barech was sickened by the sights and smells as he made his way as quickly as possible down the lines of sleeping men...men he had known for years. At last he reached the one he sought. Erkenbrand was easy to spot, for his size and age marked him. Barech recognized the man lying beside the Marshal as the Chief of Knights from Edoras. Kneeling quickly, he shook Gamling's shoulder. "Awake, my lord."

Gamling, totally spent from the privation, heavy labor, beatings, and worry for Erkenbrand, was slow to rouse. Barech tried again, shaking a bit harder and risking a louder voice. "Awake, my lord, please," he urged. "I have not much time."

The ragged figure on the other side of Erkenbrand roused. "Father?"

So startled was Barech that he nearly dropped the candle. "Raolf?" he breathed, barely daring to believe the evidence of his eyes, as hope flared in his heart. "My son, you live!"

"Father," choked Raolf, pulling himself up to be engulfed in his father's embrace.

By now Gamling was awake and found himself witness to the reunion of father and son. "Who are you? How did you find us?" croaked Gamling, for he had given his nightly water allotment to Erkenbrand and his throat was parched.

Barech looked over his son's head, for he was loath to release his hold now that he had found the boy. He was shocked at how fragile his son seemed. Dared he try to remove him from this pit of Udûn? "I have brought you some bread and cheese, my lord, and water." Quickly he pulled the small bundle from the bag tied around his shoulder and gave it to Gamling. "There is also a mixture of restorative herbs for the Marshal; mix them with his water." He reached into his pocked and pulled out a small jar. "This is a salve for the Marshal's wounds. Use it sparingly, for it is all I have."

"Bless you," breathed Gamling. "I had feared he would not last the night.

"I wanted to bring a blanket, but that would surely be noticed by the guards," added Barech.

"You have risked much to aid us, old man," said Gamling. "You king shall hear of your service."

"Our king, my lord, may well be riding into a trap set by the foul men who run this place. Even now the King's sister is being held captive to lure him here."

"Éowyn?" breathed Gamling, his mind racing. What was she doing here? More importantly, that was a sure way to being Éomer riding into face whatever faced him. "We must get word to him."

"But how?" asked Raolf. "We are barely holding on here."

"There is a way," said Barech. "Margeth and I tended the scout who accompanied you."

"Dageth lives?" asked Gamling. "Praise be."

"He left yesterday to carry word of the treachery here to Éomer King. If he can travel through the mountain passes without being seen by the sentries he had a good chance for success."

"Good," nodded Gamling, his mind running through scenarios. His eye fell onto Erkenbrand and then Raolf. "Whatever the cost, we must be prepared to lend aid to the king."

Raolf nodded and sat up from his father.

Barech studied his son's sunken cheeks, the skin as pale as a winter moon and his eyes pleaded with him. "Come with me, Raolf. Your mother and I can hide you."

Raolf shook his head. "You know I cannot, father. My place is here, in service of my king."

Gamling placed his hand on Raolf's shoulder. "None here would blame you, son."

Raolf's eyes hardened, "I would be without honor if I left you and the men of my éored to seek safety for myself."

"Very well," smiled Gamling, "it is good to see that even in this dark place honor still abides. When the king makes his move, we will rush the guards and take out as many as we can."

Barech winced at the plan, for these men had already been sorely tested, but at the same time his heart swelled with pride. "I will come again and bring what food I can find."

"Father," gasped Raolf, "You will be killed if you are discovered."

Barech cupped his son's cheek, caressing the hollow with his thumb. "How can I do less?"

Gamling shook his head. "You have done more than enough, old man; you must not put yourself in more danger."

Barech chuckled appreciatively. "We are neither one as young as we once were. But what does it matter? It may take us a little longer to reach the summit, but we do get there! Besides, I would face this danger and more to stop Gilmóod and give you and my son a better chance for success," vowed Barech. "Now, I will hear no more. I must leave before the guards rouse for their morning rounds."

Gamling busied himself applying the precious salve to the worst of Erkenbrand's wounds in order to give the father and son a chance for as private a fare well as possible in the close quarters. As the man moved to leave, Gamling grasped his arm, warrior to warrior, "I will not forget this."

Barech nodded to the Chief of Knights and allowed his eyes to linger lovingly upon his son for a moment longer. "Béma be with you," he whispered, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

_**Edoras**_

As dawn crept across the eastern slopes, Éomer moved swiftly through the hallways of the Meduseld intent upon finding Marshal Liam, who was sleeping in one of the guest rooms. "Wake sleepy head," he bellowed.

Liam rolled from the bed wild eyed and already feeling for his weapon, drawing an appreciative chuckle from the king.

"The ribbons rather spoil the effect, I think, however I am pleased to see that you have not lost your edge," drawled Éomer, leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Ribbons?" questioned Liam, still half asleep and wearing naught but the offending decorations.

"The girls did not just braid your hair; they wound ribbons through it as well."

"Ribbons! And you did not tell me?" sputtered the Marshal, feeling for the offending bits of cloth.

"I am telling you now," responded Éomer, growing serious. "Muster your éored, my friend. We ride for Snowbourne within the hour."

He was gone before the Marshal could respond. Reaching for his pants, Liam smiled to himself. "It is about bloody time..."

TBC

A/N: This has been long in coming, and I truly appreciate your patience.


	29. For That is What a King Does

**To the King**

**Chapter 29**

**For That is What a King Does**

_"The great leaders are like the best conductors - they reach beyond the notes to reach the magic in the players." Blaine Lee_

_Dedicated to EJ and SusanW_

_Harrowdale _

"Halt," the wiry sentry cried, stepping into the path to block entry.

Hálith pulled up on his horse. Well, in actuality it was Lord Faramir's horse, the fastest one of the lot. He was really far more animal than the boy could manage, and Hálith was exhausted from the arduous journey. Panting, he pulled back on the reins and barely managed to hold on as his mount reared up, his legs kicking out in protest at the action.

Recognizing Hálith from his visit there a several days ago, when Faramir stopped the trio by to make themselves known to Marshal Fingol, the sentry tried to calm the horse. "Whoa lad," he called, jumping out of the way of the hooves and taking hold of the reins before the boy could be thrown. "What fool put you on such a mount?"

As soon as the forward sentry had settled the horse, Hálith jumped from the saddle, panting and relieved to be on the ground. The boy felt like crying with relief. How many days had he been trying to get here...two, three? He'd lost count. It had taken him hours to backtrack around the patrols posted in the passes of Snowbourne and every moment he lost he feared would be the moment that cost Faramir or Hamm their lives and allowed the King to ride into a trap. Hálith was terrified the entire time that he would lose his way or not be able to backtrack to where they had left the horses, but he had done it. They harrowing ride to the Marshal's holding – stopping only when exhaustion forced him to sleep a couple of hours - had been a nightmare of fighting the fiery mount and trying to recognize the landmarks that Lord Faramir and Hamm had shown him. A hundred times he berated himself for not being more attentive. It had all been an exciting game to him at the time, and now his king's life might hang in the balance as a result of his inattention.

Hálith felt the tears burning his eyes, but he no longer cared whether he looked like a warrior. He'd been given a sword at Helm's Deep and told to take to the wall. The King of Gondor himself, though he did not know who he was at the time, had told him there was always hope. But Hálith had not felt brave when the Uruks breeched the walls...he had dropped his sword and fallen to his knees, finally pushed over the edge of reason by all the blood, gore, and death around him. If Gamling had not pulled him to his feet and sent him into the cave with the message for Éowyn to lead the women and children out through the mountains, he would not have survived. Hálith had swallowed his shame and guilt for months.

"I bear an urgent message for your Marshal," he panted. "Please," he gasped, trying desperately to catch the breath robbed from him by fear and exertion. "I...the king...we must..."

"Hold on, boy," the sentry tried to calm the obviously exhausted lad. "Take a deep breath and start over...slowly."

Hálith forced the fears and recriminations from his mind and followed the sentry's advice. He took a deep, shuddering breath and blew it out slowly through his mouth, billowing his cheeks in the process. His momentary panic attack past, Hálith started over. "I bear an important message from Lord Faramir, the Steward of Gondor, for the Marshal. Pu...please, take me to him." The message imparted to the sentry, relief washed over the boy.

The sentry schooled his features so as not to show his amused admiration at the change in Hálith. He was a fine lad and had conquered his terror like a warrior. It was a myth that warriors felt no fear, though likely none would admit it except to each other. True bravery was in conquering your fear and standing your ground...in doing what had to be done, regardless the cost. "Then come." With a sharp whistle, the sentry alerted the other guards that he would be out of position. "You take my horse, lad; he is less a handful than this one."

O-o-O-o-O

Felor made his way slowly through the hills. It had been one of the rare days when the man left Edoras well before sunrise to set traps for the rabbits that would supplement his meager meals. In his youth, growing up at Snowbourne, he'd spent long hours hunting the hills for the fat coneys that he brought home for his mother to transform into succulent stews. She had a way with coney that would make them fair melt in your mouth, she did! So strong was the remembrance and so caught up was he in it that he snagged his crutch on a briar and crashed down beside the last trap to be checked. 'Aye, ye old fool,' he admonished himself, 'best keep yer'mind on what yer' doing.' Pulling himself up awkwardly to a sitting position, Felor checked the trap. Success! This one, along with the other he'd caught would make a welcome change for supper. He might just take them both to Bergfinn's to share, for it was well known that Bergfinn's missus had quite a way with coneys! Not as good as his mother's, Béma rest her soul, but good.

Felor sat for a moment reckoning how far he had come from his wagon. In the old days he would have ridden his great warhorse out to hunt, but those days had been ended by an orc's sword. Now he drove his old wagon out to the foothills and then hobbled his way to where he kept his traps. It was slow, sometimes painfully when the weather was about to change, but Felor was warrior enough to still long for the feel of the wind in his face and the solitude of the hills from time to time. None of them would admit it, but he knew, of course, that the regular hunters left this area of the hills for his traps. He did not begrudge them this small bit of charity, for that was just the way that warriors looked out for each other.

Taking the time to feast his eyes on the view, Felor allowed his mind to travel down a road he seldom took these days, to the glory days of Rohan. Since the disastrous losses on the Pelennor, far too few men were left to properly cover all of the areas that needed covering. Gone were the once proud and numerous éoreds thundering across the Riddermark. Now there were barely enough men to secure Edoras and the Mearas breeding stations. Oh, few or not, her warriors were still proud, but it would take time for Rohan to recover. In his heart Felor had no doubt but that recover she would. The blood of her warriors had not been shed in vain.

As he gathered his catch, a thin tendril of smoke caught his eye. It was barely visible, but to the old warrior, it clamored alarm in his mind like a peeling bell, for no éoreds were supposed to be in this area. Carefully, so as not to flush out any fowl that might betray his position, the man left his crutch and crawled to the top of the rise. It was slow going and awkward, even painful at times on his stump, but he kept at it, his mind and wits as sharp as ever. As Felor neared the ridge line he chose a spot that was well grown up with weeds to mask his movements and the appearance of his head over the top.

The old warrior's heart near stopped at what lay out before him. It was an entire brigade of hill men, obviously prepared for attack. But attack where? His blood ran cold as he realized it could only be Edoras. Was it possible? Was there some other explanation? How did this many hill men come to be mounted, and how did they get this close to the capitol city without being spotted? Well, the last answer he knew well enough. All eyes had been drawn away from this direction to the slaughtered Mearas' of the Eastemnet. Felor realized that there was far more in play here than any of them had imagined, and by an enemy that was not only clever but ruthless.

As swiftly as he could, Felor made his way back down the hillside, the traps and conies forgotten. Felor knew that he had to get to his wagon and back to Edoras to raise the warning, and thanked Béma that the Hill men were too badly led or organized to post proper sentries or they might have fallen upon a completely unprepared Edoras. He fell several times in his haste, but determinedly kept up the brutal pace. Felor's heart was pounding with the exertion when he finally reached his wagon. As quickly as he could he un-tethered his horse, crawled up onto the wagon seat, and set off for Edoras.

It was a rough and bumpy ride at the speed he was going and his dear old horse matched every demand for more effort that he asked of her. Ah, she still had the heart of a champion, his old girl. As he crested the last hill, Felor was relieved to see Edoras rising from the valley floor as peaceful as ever.

O-o-O-o-O

Now that he was at the head of an éored again, Éomer felt as free as a colt kicking up his legs with the energy of the young. Were it not for the warning that kept niggling at the back of his neck, he would laugh for the pure joy of it.

Riding beside Éomer, it was all Liam could do not to laugh at his liege. He had known Éomer for most of his life and he knew better than anyone what the man was feeling. As if that weren't enough, he smiled to himself, he'd have to be blind not to see it, for Éomer had a fierce grin plastered all over his face.

They had ridden hard, passing the northern passes of valley in late afternoon, and now approached the upward passage to the high holding of Harrowdale. Reluctantly Éomer halted his riders beside Snowbourne River. Man and horse alike needed rest, and no matter how dire the need, a blown mount could not do battle. Dismounting, Éomer released Firefoot to drink his fill and feed on the nearby grasses. There was no fear that any of the mounts would bolt, for they were all battle tested warhorses of Rohan, the best in the world.

While the men rested or worked preparing a meal, Éomer found himself pacing. Try as he might, he could not force himself to take his rest. A warrior for many years, Éomer could not shake the feeling that he was missing some important piece of information. Too much was happening that seemed unrelated, yet had enough of a common thread to warrant his attention.

"Sit down, Éomer," chuckled Liam, "you are making me dizzy with your constant motion back and forth."

Éomer favored his friend with a look that spoke volumes, but sat down beside the Marshal, his hand automatically moving to massage his scarred leg as his mind continued its progression.

"What is bothering you so much?"

"Questions, Liam," he answered slowly, "all I have are questions." Shaking away the frustration, Éomer rolled his head in an attempt to relax the taut muscles of his neck. "Why was the Eastemnet station hit when the one on the Westfold is smaller and far more vulnerable?"

"Well, perhaps it is because the Eastemnet was larger that it was hit," ventured Liam.

"But why," Éomer countered. "You said yourself that all the horses had been slaughtered."

"All that we saw," the Marshal clarified, "though that was a good number...undoubtedly most of what was there." He closed his eyes thinking back to the scene he had tried so hard to forget. "Actually, there were a larger number of mares and foals than anything else...I think." Liam shook his head tiredly. "I am sorry; I cannot remember more."

"What ties the Eastemnet and Snowbourne together?' mused Éomer. "Perhaps if I could find the answer to that question some of the disparate threads I have been chasing would begin weave themselves into a rope that I can follow." He sighed and glanced at Liam. "For now I just want to get to Snowbourne and find out why my sister has not returned."

Liam snorted as he offered a slice of dried hard tack to Éomer. "And what will you do with her then?"

"Pack her off to Gondor with Faramir where I know she will be safe," he vowed. "At least then she will be disobeying Faramir's orders and not mine." Éomer could not keep the smile from his face as he thought about his feisty sister. "She will certainly set Gondor on its ear," he chuckled, before groaning.

"What is it now?" asked Liam.

"Gondor!" he said as though that would explain it all. "How am I supposed to tell Aragorn that I have lost his Steward by allowing him to wander the wilds of Rohan accompanied by only a boy and a farrier?"

Liam had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from laughing outright at the look of consternation on Éomer's face. "I am sure I need not remind you that Faramir was a Ranger for many years."

"I am not disparaging Faramir's skills," defended Éomer. "He is a fine and capable man, but I am responsible for his safety while he is within our borders."

"Oh, so you can now control all that happens within our land?" Liam challenged. "Éomer, you are only one man; stop carrying the weight of us all upon your shoulders."

"I have to," Éomer said softly, "for that is what a king does."

O-o-O-o-O

Scaro sat in his room nursing his broken nose. No doubt the favorites of Gilmóod were even now making jokes at his expense. With a twisted nose and blackened eyes to accompany his scared face, he realized angrily that he must make quite a sight.

Scaro's soul was as twisted as the scar running the length of his face and he now contemplated his revenge.

For years he had worked for Gilmóod, biding his time and waiting for the moment to strike. He had tolerated taking orders and being abused long enough and soon the tide would turn in his favor. In odd moments here and there he had questioned his actions, but no longer. Any loyalty he felt, if indeed he was capable of feeling such an emotion, was negated when Gilmóod called him useless. Useless! There the man lay on his back, arms and legs flailing in the air like an overturned beetle, until his men could haul his worthless carcass up, and he called Scaro useless!

Well, Scaro would have the last laugh. Let Gilmóod think himself king here in this worthless outpost. He would never reap enough from those mines to make a go of it, certainly not with those pathetic skeletons he had worked nearly to death. While Gilmóod struggled to hold things together here, Scaro had set his own plans in motion. He and his Dunlending allies would rule Edoras. The man laughed to himself at the ease with which he had set his revenge in motion. Gilmóod thought that the wild men of the hills were helping him for the pittance he was paying them, but Scaro was the true puppet master. As Éomer rode here with his precious éoreds, the bulk of the Hill men were massed and ready to strike at the heart of the Mark...Edoras herself, now sitting peaceful and ripe for the picking.

It was masterful, really, Scaro mused. With the might of Rohan bled nearly dry upon the fields of the Pelennor, the remnant was stretched thin attempting to guard the remaining Mearas Breeding Stations from further attack. All that would be guarding Edoras would be the regular gate guards and a few old men. "Ripe for the picking," he repeated aloud.

And Edoras was not the only one who would soon fall. Scaro would not forget the debt he owed Erkenbrand for shattering his nose and humiliating him in front of his men. No, the Marshal would pay that debt in full, he would see to that. Perhaps he would drag the man's body behind his horse all the way to Edoras and there hang it from the gates for all to see what happens to those who dared to oppose him? Yes, he rather liked that idea.

TBC

A/N My thanks to Katzilla for the use of her character Bergfinn.


	30. War is Upon Us

**To the King**

**Chapter 30**

**War is Upon Us**

"**_Every citizen should be a soldier. This was the case with the Greeks and Romans, and must be that of every free state." Thomas Jefferson_**

Ever since Brego had chosen the green hill as the site of his capitol city and built the Meduseld upon its crest, Edoras had served as the heart of the Riddermark and home to her kings. Besides the fortress wall surrounding the hillside, any attackers would be forced to transverse the wide Barrowfield before it could ever begin to besiege the city, thus giving the guards ample time to close and bar the massive gates. Adding to the natural security of the wall and the setting of the city upon a wide plain, a dike was constructed around the outside of the gate and could be flooded by diverting the stream which sprang from the crest of the mount. As if this were not enough to deter an enemy, the King's own Guard stayed with him at all times. The city was considered impenetrable, and thus Edoras had never been attacked by an enemy.

That was about to change. Felor had raced within the gates and immediately called to the guards to close and bar them with haste. As his wagon bumped and rattled its way up the hillside towards the Golden Hall, people stopped what they were doing and turned to watch the unusual spectacle, but Felor paid them no mind. Pulling to a stop before the great steps, the man all but leapt from the wagon. Taking the steps two at a time – no small feat for a man with one leg and crutches – he notified the doorward of what he had witnessed. At once the warning gong had been sounded calling all able bodied men to arms. All the people hastened to meet at the steps of the Meduseld where the officer in charge would give them assignments.

For a city that had never been attacked, Edoras responded as one would expect the capitol city of a war beleaguered country, with calmness and determination. Once Théoden King had fallen under the spell of Gríma Wormtongue, Théodred and Éomer had taken up as much of the duties and preparations for war and the protection of the Mark as they could without alerting Gríma. Knowing full well that if Gondor fell and Sauron prevailed it would only be a matter of time before Rohan and Edoras were besieged, the pair had instituted as many defensive measures as possible. As a last resort, all possible survivors and éoreds would be called to the capitol city, there to fight to the end of all things. When all was lost, the elderly, women, and children would be gathered into the Meduseld where they would be humanely dispatched to meet their forefathers. Those elderly or women who wished would take their place beside the warriors to meet the final onslaught and die fighting.

Now the unthinkable was happening, the capitol city was about to fall under siege and the defenders were pitifully few owing to the decimation of the war and the absence of Éomer from Edoras. Standing at the top of the steps running defensive plans through his mind was Wendil, the Duty Officer. Before him were the 24 members of the Gate Guard, men whose age or abilities were not suited to the more rigorous duty of an éored. Also standing before the duty officer were the 12 Gondorian guards who had accompanied Lord Faramir to Rohan. These men were in the peak of condition and would make an invaluable addition to the fighting force not only in strength and ability but also in organization and leadership. Wendil motioned for Ardon, the Captain of the Guards from Gondor to stand beside him. The rest of his fighting force were merchants, farriers, groomsmen from the stables, farmers, and lads too young to yet be apprenticed. Bergfinn was present, as was Felor.

Wendil's first act was to dispatch two men to let loose the floodgate so that the dike surrounding the walls could quickly be flooded. One of the Gondorian guards was sent with Bergfinn and two other men to the armory to fetch weapons and arrows to be placed strategically along the inside of the walls upon the ramparts. From the outside the wall appeared to simply be rough hewn logs, but that was deceptive. Sentry stations were set up at intervals along the inside and a wide walkway connected each. Everything had been constructed with the thought to ease of rearming the wall's defenders. On the barrows side of the city, the walls were doubly thick, for it was from this direction that attack was most likely.

Led by Ardon, the soldiers of Gondor and the regular guards of the gate took up position along the walls. The men of the city were organized into groups that would serve as additional archers, keep supplying arrows for the warriors, and bucket brigades that were already beginning to wet down the roofs of the dwellings of the city, which would all be within arrow range.

Hildegard too marshaled her troops. All the children, nursing mothers and pregnant women were brought to the stables. Supplies from the kitchens of the Meduseld could easily be brought there, and already women were setting up bedding upon the soft straw. The Golden Hall itself was reserved for the wounded, the ill, or the dying, and beds were being brought there and arranged in two long rows on either side of the great central fire pit. Each household supplied what herbs and bandages they had, and the women not quartered in the stables were assigned to work as healers, in the kitchens preparing food, or as in the case of the more able bodied, helping with the actual defense of the city. Those not trained with the bow could help to keep the rooftops wet and put out fires.

The kitchen was abuzz with activity. Every pot had been filled with water and placed on the stoves to boil. At need the burning liquid would be poured over the walls to deter the enemy from breaching them by means of ladder. Along one side of the kitchen several women were slicing loaves of bread and cheese for the warriors, nursing mothers and children. Stock pots of soup were bubbling and could be stretched at need, depending upon how long the siege lasted.

As soon as the gong began sounding, Elena gathered the seven children of the king's household in Théodred's room. At eight years of age, Bergoff wanted to be allowed to join the other lads outside, but Elena persuaded him that his duty was here with the younger children who looked to him for comfort, and helping her with their care. Bergoff felt it more likely that the elderly woman would need his care, but kept that thought to himself.

The shyest of the group, seven year old Márta, had begun to cry with all the unexpected hoopla going on about the city. Meela, her younger sister sat silently on the bed, her large eyes fixed upon the door as though she expected orcs to burst in any moment. Irrepressible Thela, too young to remember the war years, bounced on the bed in excitement. The younger three boys, Felor, Tredin, and little Gandafin, who wanted only to be an Ithilien Ranger, stood close by Bergoff, afraid but not wanting to show it.

"Come here, children," crooned Elena, taking Márta onto her lap. "Let me tell you a story."

"I w, wish the K, King was here," stuttered Tredin, crawling up onto the bed and snuggling close to Elena.

"Or Farmeer!" suggested Thela. "Farmeer would take care of us!"

"I will take care of you," replied Elena firmly, "and Mistress Hildegard and Mistress Berga too."

"Are the orcs coming back?" asked Gandafin, his eyes wide with fear.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir slipped into the cave through the brush and scrub he had used to camouflage the entrance. Only someone who knew about the cave before hand would be likely to find their hiding place. He squatted down beside the fire warming his hands for a few moments, for the evening was chill. Dageth was napping and Hamm was sharpening his knife on a whetstone.

Hamm glanced up as Faramir entered and could easily read the Steward's face. "No sign of Hálith?"

Faramir shook his head. "We have no way of knowing whether or not the boy even made it to Harrowdale." He sighed in frustration. "I should have gone myself."

"And then who would have scouted the surrounding hills and been available to tell of troop placement and numbers?" Hamm asked patiently. "I have not your skills at stealth," he admitted. "You made the only choice you could under the circumstances."

"We cannot wait much longer," the Steward stated flatly. "Every day puts Éowyn in more danger, for I do not know how long that bastard will keep his hands off of her."

Hamm raised his eyebrows but wisely kept his eyes on what he was doing. The enforced inactivity was wearing on them all, Faramir most of all.

Dageth roused from his sleep. The scout was getting stronger each day, though he was far from full strength. "What has happened?" he asked sleepily.

"Nothing," Faramir spat, "nothing at all is happening!" His frustration was getting the best of him, he knew, but he was worried to distraction about Éowyn. "I will not sit here much longer without taking action."

O-o-O-o-O

With the sinking of the sun the attack came. Riding clumsily across the plain the mounted enemy came first, followed by those hillmen running behind. Some pulled wagons stocked with crude weapons and pitch for burning arrows.

Behind the wall, the sentries sounded the alert. From his position, Ardon was amazed at the numbers they were facing. To be sure, the odds were not so great as he had faced when looking out upon the Pelennor, but he was at least behind great stone walls then. Here he faced the foe with pitifully few, though undoubtedly brave, men and women. Beside him he heard Wendil growl and turned questioningly towards him.

"Those are our horses they ride," he fumed, "stolen from the Eastemnet." He shook his head bitterly. "My brother died defending the breeding station and those horses."

"Then we must take them back," Ardon grinned fiercely. "If it is a fight they want then they have come to the right place."

Wendil met his grin and clapped the man from Gondor on the back in appreciation and approval. "You have the heart of a true warrior!" he declared. "Are you sure there is not the blood of Rohan running in your veins?"

Ardon snorted, "The Horse Lords are not the only ones who have fought long and hard, my friend." He turned to motion the archers arrayed below the wall to prepare. "For many years it was Gondor's blood being spilt defending the West from the filth of Mordor."

"As we rode to you on the Pelennor, so now you have come to us in our time of need," proclaimed Wendil. "Henceforth you shall be my brother, whether we die this day or no."

O-o-O-o-O

For the third night in a row, Barech had visited the mines bringing water and food to his son, Gamling, and Marshal Erkenbrand. They, in turn, shared with those around them. Barech marveled at the Marshal's strength, for amazingly he seemed to be rallying from the beating he had taken. The Echinacea root Barech brought the first night had been effective against Erkenbrand's fever, and the Arnica salve was helping the bruising and wounds. It was a miracle that the Marshal had not suffered any broken bones.

Each night it was harder and harder to say goodbye to Raolf, but Barech was comforted to see some life returning to his son's eyes. The hopelessness he had seen there the first night had been haunting him ever since.

Barech stumbled slightly as he made his way back to his cottage, for he was so very weary from working all day and stealing away to the mines for much of the night. He was glad that Margeth was temporarily being housed near Gilmóod's prisoner. He dared not tell her that Raolf lived for fear that she would be unable to keep the joy from her face and inadvertently arouse suspicions in the manor house.

Dear Margeth...he smiled as he thought of his sweet wife, whose face was always as open and trusting as her heart. She could never keep a secret, for her face reflected her feelings...always. It was just fortunate that she worked in the kitchens where her distrust of and disgust for Gilmóod could go unnoticed by the brute.

It was deathly quiet as he made his way back to his cottage for a bit of rest before being up at dawn to head back to work. The old man was stepping carefully down the steep, rocky path when a hand clamped down on his mouth and he was grabbed from behind. His heart pounded furiously as he silently said his goodbyes to Margeth and Raolf, for surely he would executed for being where he was not supposed to be.

"Do not be afraid," the voice whispered in his ear, even as he was being pulled from the path. "I am a friend."

TBC

A/N: I realize this is shorter than normal, but the chapters just seem to set their own pace. I hope you enjoy!


	31. Siege

**To the King**

**Chapter 31**

**Siege**

"_**The Spartans do not inquire how many the enemy are, but where they are." Agis II, 427BC**_

_It was deathly quiet as he made his way back to his cottage for a bit of rest before being up at dawn to head back to work. The old man was stepping carefully down the steep, rocky path when a hand clamped down on his mouth and he was grabbed from behind. His heart pounded furiously as he silently said his goodbyes to Margeth and Raolf, for surely he would executed for being where he was not supposed to be._

"_Do not be afraid," the voice whispered in his ear, even as he was being pulled from the path. "I am a friend."_

Barech's heart was thudding as he was held firmly, but gently against the unknown's chest.

"Will you keep silent if I remove my hand?"

Barech nodded. What did he have to lose? If it were any of Gilmóod's men, he would be dead by now...or wishing he were. Whoever this unknown was could not be any worse than what he already faced day in and day out. He found himself being pulled further into the darkness as the hand was removed.

"My name is Faramir."

Barech was certain he had never before seen this man and could not imagine how he came to be here now, but he was grateful for anyone that could or would help. "Who are you, friend?"

Faramir hesitated a second before answering. "I am the Steward of Gondor."

Barech scoffed. "Do take me for a fool, stranger?"

Faramir met the old man's derision without flinching. It _was_ a rather outlandish idea, he had to admit, but in order to prove his good intentions he wanted to be honest. "I am the Lady Éowyn's intended; I journeyed to Rohan with the King's return."

"Lady Éowyn," Barech breathed. "I had not heard that she had an intended, but then Snowbourne has been isolated for a long time." He gauged the sincerity of the man's words, for it was impossible to see much of his features in the darkness. Hope flared in his chest. "Have you an army, my Lord, for we are under siege here!"

Faramir shook his head. "No, I am sorry there are but three of us at present."

"Three?" gasped Barech. "But how...from where did you come?"

"Is there someplace more secure that we can talk?" Faramir asked urgently, scanning the area. The sun would be rising soon and he needed to be back undercover before that happened.

"My home is nearby," the man answered. "We can talk safely there." He led the way to his cottage, taking care that the door was closed and the curtains on the small window were closed before he lit the oil lamp.

Faramir quickly scanned the room taking in the fireplace devoid of even any glowing embers, the table and chairs and the curtained off sleeping area with the unmade bed beyond. Assured they were alone, he allowed himself to relax ever so slightly.

Still attempting to reconcile the things he had been told, Barech turned breathlessly to the newcomer. The stranger was much taller than the old man, fit, and fair of face and hair. His serious eyes were what resonated with Barech, however, for they held no lie within their depths. "You truly are the Steward of Gondor?"

Faramir nodded, steering the man towards the table. He pulled out a chair and motioned for the man to sit. "Please, rest; you look weary." Faramir poured a mug of water from the ewer on the table and handed it to the elderly man. "Forgive me for frightening you."

Barech was nearly befuddled by the turn of events. "My lord…," he hesitated, "are you lost?"

Faramir could not stop the chuckle that escaped him. He smiled in reassurance at Barech. "My brother quite often would ask me the same question when I was late for my sword drills."

Barech was strangely reassured by the easy laugh from the enigmatic visitor. It was a pleasant sound, and one that he had not heard in a long time. "How may I help you, my lord?"

"Faramir," the Steward answered immediately. Pulling his flint from his pocket, Faramir went to the fireplace and quickly began making a fire. It was the least he could do for the exhausted man. In only a few moments he had the fire burning. The crackling, along with the coziness of the small house, seemed a great luxury compared to the cave where he was currently staying. "Dageth told me of your bravery and faithfulness."

"Dageth?" Barech's eyes lit up at the mention of the young warrior. He had wondered about him many times, hoping that the young scout had made it safely away from this vile place of death. "Then he lives?"

"Thanks to you and your wife," Faramir nodded. "I am sure Éomer shall reward your faithfulness."

Barech's eyes hardened. "I do not risk death for reward, my lord; I but do my duty to my King."

"Forgive me, friend," Faramir pled, immediately contrite for his unintended insult, "for I, too, am weary and worried for my intended." He placed his hand on Barech's arm in entreaty. "I mean you no disrespect, for Dageth had told of the risks undertaken by you on his behalf."

Mollified, Barech nodded. "I am relieved to hear that Dageth lives; his injury was grave." He sipped a drink of the water Faramir had poured him, fatigue coming with the warmth of the fire seeping into his tired limbs. "How may I be of help to you, my lord?"

Faramir sat down opposite the man and met his eyes with honesty and regret. "I have no wish to place you in more danger…"

"But you must have more information," finished Barech knowingly. "I have not always been a serving man, my lord." He smiled wryly. "I too was a rider of Rohan…in my time," he added with a chuckle.

"Your heart is stout, Barech; I do not doubt your valor." Faramir immediately responded. "What can you tell me of the numbers of enemy we are facing?"

Barech scratched his bearded chin as he thought. "I have seen a full éored's worth."

Faramir whistled softly. "A full éored is over one hundred men, is it not?"

Barech nodded, "One hundred twenty before these dark days." He looked sadly at Faramir. "How can you hope to save Lady Éowyn with just three men?"

"There is more at stake here than just Éowyn's life," the Steward responded bitterly. Faramir's mind was whirling with thoughts. "How many men are being held in the mines?"

Barech was shocked. "Sixty or more, my lord, but they are sick and sorely used."

Faramir smiled wolfishly, "They are men of Rohan, are they not?"

"Aye," Barech agreed hesitantly, "but even men so brave as that have their limits."

"This is a desperate situation we are in," Faramir acknowledged. "If my messenger did not reach Harrowdale in time, the king will surely ride into a trap."

Barech sat up firmly, shock written on every line of his aged features. "The King?" he breathed. "At all costs, we cannot allow that to happen." A small smile of remembrance crossed his features. "I rode with the King's father, Éomund." He nodded to himself as he remembered the brave Marshal. "After his death we moved here to be nearer my Margeth's brother, Felor."

Faramir was intrigued. "Do you remember Éomer then?"

"I do," He shook his head sadly at the remembrance. "I found him when he stole into the room to look upon his father's mutilated body." Barech frowned as he thought of the implications of what Faramir said. "Gilmóod hates Éomer King and would surely kill him." The old man was resolute. "I cannot let that happen, for the honor I bear Éomund's memory, as well as for my King."

Faramir nodded his agreement. "If you can get me into the mine tonight, I can better gauge how to organize the men there." He continued softly, as though thinking aloud. "Their best chance will be to act with stealth, as Rangers, rather than Horse Lords."

"And I shall organize the men and women that are left in the village," Barech added. "We are not so young as we once were, but there is fight left in us and we can still wield swords or bows."

Faramir's eyes shone with pride and the thrill of admiration in this simple man so willing to risk all. He put his hand on Barech's shoulder. "Together we will defeat this rabble,"

Barech wanted desperately to believe him, but the old man's doubts were reflected on his face.

Faramir's blue eyes blazed. "My father once told me a truth that you must believe now; one brave man fighting for his home will be worth a dozen of Gilmóod's minions of evil."

O-o-O-o-O

Exhausted, Wendil and Ardon sank down gratefully to sit with their backs against the stout walls as yet another attack had been repelled. The men had lost count of how many charges they faced and fought off throughout the long days of the siege. The bite of the night air helped to keep them awake. Nearby men and women battled to save two homes set ablaze by flaming arrows in the last attack. The darkness was illuminated by those flickering flames licking greedily up at the sky.

"Tell me again that your rider made it to the king," Ardon sighed. The man was nearly shaking with fatigue.

Wendil, too tired to smile, turned his head towards his new friend, his face a study in downward curves, with a long mustache, a hooked nose, and a drooping mouth. "My messenger got away before the first attack," he confirmed. "He should have reached Harrowdale by now."

"What if King Éomer has already left there?" questioned the guard from Gondor for the tenth time.

"Éomer King was not riding at speed, as our messenger was," assured Wendil. His mouth twitched in a tentative smile and the long, sad face lit up with conviction and faith. "Our King will come; we have just to hold out until he does."

Ardon reached up to massage his aching temples. His arms bled from a dozen scrapes and tears. "I hope I can stay awake that long," he sighed. "We are running out of bodies to man this wall."

Wendil nodded tiredly, running his hand through his hair to brush it back from his sweat streaked forehead. "I dare not move any more from the fire brigades else the entire city will go up in flames."

"Death by burning or death by enraged wild men," Ardon quipped, his gallows humor firmly in place. "I wonder which I prefer?"

Wendil snorted softly; he had not the energy for much more. "You men of Gondor are _very_ strange."

Both men sat tiredly, the only sound the crackling of the burning homes and the pitched calls of those battling to save them breaking the silence. Overhead the stars were masked by the billowing smoke that burned their eyes and parched their throats.

"Were you out there, Wendil?" Ardon asked suddenly, so suddenly that the man beside him turned towards him in confusion.

"Was I where?"

"Were you out there...with the Riders on the Pelennor?"

Wendil leaned his head back against the rough logs of the wall, and closed his eyes at the memory. "I was there," he finally admitted softly. "Béma willing, I never want to go through anything like that _ever_ again." He voice was made gruff by more than the smoke. He felt a hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes in surprise.

Ardon looked at the man with fierce admiration. "When the Rohirrim, what was left of you, reformed to face the Mûmakil's charge...well, it was the bravest thing I have ever seen." He squeezed Wendil's shoulder slightly. "Should I not make it through this; I want you to know that."

Wendil, momentarily rendered speechless by the affirmation, nodded his head in thanks. Before he could form his words, they were interrupted by the sentry's cry. "They are attacking again!"

O-o-O-o-O

As Hálith gave his report, Éomer's countenance grew fiercer and fiercer. By the time the boy had finished, the King was outraged and clinching his fists in frustration.

Beside him, Liam was ashen thinking of Éowyn in such danger. "I should have convinced her to return to Edoras with me."

Éomer rounded on his friend. "Pull yourself together, Liam; there is no time for looking back now."

Fingol cleared his throat uncomfortably, "My éored is at your disposal, my king."

"We will ride at dawn," Éomer announced. "Hálith, can you lead us back through the unguarded path?"

"Aye, my king," Hálith vowed. "Faramir, Hamm, and Dageth are waiting for us in a cave above the mines of Snowbourne." Hálith was astounded to find himself pulled into an embrace by the king. "You have done well, lad; I am proud of you."

The look of adoration with which Hálith graced his King was almost more than one mortal could bestow upon another.

Éomer released Hálith and turned towards Fingol and Liam. "I will not leave my sister in the hands of that vile man one moment longer."

"My éored can be mounted in minutes, my Lord," Fingol assured him. Indeed, his riders had been summoned and gathering since the King's earlier arrival.

"Then let us ride," said Éomer, "now!"

As the men made their way outside a sentry approached leading another rider. "Éomer King," the sentry called, ignoring the protocol of addressing his Marshal first. "Éomer King!"

Fingol frowned as the three men walked towards the new arrivals. The messenger flung himself from his blown mount and fell exhausted at the king's feet. "My Lord," he panted, "Edoras is under attack!"

"Are you mad, man?" demanded Liam. "Under attack from whom?"

Éomer put his hand on Liam's forearm to stay any more comments. "Get this man some water."

As one of Marshal Fingol's men hurried to do the king's bidding, Éomer helped the man to stand and led him over to sit on the side of a stone wall. He sat down beside him, unconsciously rubbing the scar on his leg as was his habit when perplexed or deep in thought. Possible courses of action ran through his head as he forced himself to wait until the exhausted man could have a drink. When that was completed, he continued, his voice far calmer than his insides. "Report, messenger."

"Hill men from Dunland are attacking the city, Sire, hundreds of them."

Éomer reeled at the news. "Hundreds," he breathed, knowing full well the city was ill manned to withstand such an assault for long. Disbelief warred with incredulity as he grasped this news. There was but one choice. He must return to Edoras with all haste, which meant leaving his beloved sister in danger. Éomer took a deep breath as he came to his feet, once more firm in his conviction. "Liam, take ten men and go with Hálith; the rest will ride with me to Edoras!"

Liam nodded, shock at the unexpected turn of events still evident on his handsome features.

"Liam," Éomer said softly, drawing the man aside to speak privately. "Tell Faramir..." he had to swallow before he could finish, "tell him to save my sister."

TBC


	32. You Must Overcome Your Fear

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

**You Must Overcome Your Fear**

"_Fear can be a prison of our own making when we allow it to steal away our resolve to do what we know must be done." Anon_

**I dedicate this chapter, with my sincerest love and thanks, to Evendim for graciously allowing me the use of her characters/characterizations. Ancir is her character, and the flashback scene is one which I hope will make her proud.**

Berga moved down the line of wounded and injured dispensing what care she could. Many had arrow wounds, but many more bore burns from fighting back the fires caused by the flaming arrows of the enemy. In her condition, the smell of the charred flesh was almost too much to handle, but the woman of Rohan forced herself to continue her care giving, praying that wherever he was, if her Gamling was injured, some woman would be caring for him as well.

Tiredly, she sat down at one of the nearby tables for a moment just to relieve the pressure on the small of her back, and briefly enjoy the luxury of propping up her aching feet on another bench. Most of her patients were sleeping, so she closed her eyes and tried to focus on the sound of the crackling fire heating the room, and not the fires being fought outside.

She must have dozed, for the hand suddenly on her shoulder startled her and she gasped to find herself staring into the knowing face of Hildegard.

"Enough is enough," stated the cook; "You are coming with me."

Berga must have been still half asleep for she smiled at the healer thinking of how often Hildegard had reminded her of a banty rooster her mother had owned.

"Are ye going daft, woman?" demanded Hildegard. "Stop smiling like that and follow me!"

Shaking her head fondly, Berga did as she was told. "You do not fool me for one moment."

The cook snorted, "Keep it to yourself then; I have a reputation to uphold." She led the pregnant woman towards the kitchens while keeping up her chatter. "How do think I kept that rascal Théodred in line?"

Berga smiled at the memory of the chestnut haired prince. "You were the only one in the Meduseld that could, as I remember." She became teary eyed as she thought about the happier days when the young prince had been mothered by every woman working in the Golden Hall. She had not been much more than a lass herself, but she remembered those halcyon days of her youth when the evils of the world did not touch her. "Such a loss he was..."

"Now do not go thinking down those lines; not now," Hildegard warned. "There will be time enough for our grief when we have not a hall full of wounded needing our care."

Reaching the kitchens, Hildegard gently pushed Berga onto a chair. "Sit there and I will get you some tea."

Hildegard busied herself pouring water from the kettle she kept going on her stove at all times. She firmly believed in the restorative powers of a nice, bracing cup of tea. Whether one needed calming or rousing, the hot beverage seemed to be the answer. The cook dropped a large dollop of honey into the cup and brought it over to the thick, plank table where the pregnant woman now rested her elbows. "Drink this; then it is off to bed with you."

"Oh no, I cannot," protested Berga. "There is still so much to be done, and Elena must need help with the children."

"The only help you are going to be giving is to that cot over there," responded the cook, pointing to a cot set up in the corner of the kitchen where pantry shelves were placed. It was darker and quieter in that corner and was where Hildegard had been taking her rest at the odd moments she could find. "Your husband will not come home to find his wife has not been cared for by me."

"Oh Hildegard," smiled Berga tiredly, "you are one of a kind."

"That I am, dearie," agreed the cook, as she sat down at the table beside Berga. "Now you just finish up that tea and get some rest." She stifled the yawn she felt threatening and forced her face to remain animated, hiding her true fatigue from the other woman. "While you are sleeping I am just going to be getting the porridge started; our wounded will be hungry once they awaken." She looked out the window facing the east, gauging the time. "Any time now that scruffy rooster will begin singing his song and rousing my patients."

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir just made it back to the cave where Dageth and Hamm were waiting as dawn broke. He slid so silently through the foliage he had placed to hide the entrance that the sleeping men did not even rouse. Well, he thought tiredly, it made sense. If the two men were discovered, one keeping watch would not make any difference. Rather than wake the men, he knelt and began building up a small fire. He could at least have some warm oat cakes, however old and dry, for them when they awoke.

Faramir used his flint to strike a spark to the small collection of twigs and leaves he had gathered for kindling. Once a small flame was spotted, he blew gently on it and began to stack some larger branches around and over it. The Ranger turned Steward settled down with his back against the rocky wall to wait. He wanted to talk his idea through with Hamm and Dageth before taking his rest, but found his eyes growing heavy. As he rested his eyes, he allowed his mind to drift back, wondering how Boromir would have handled the situation.

"_Left...now right...no!" Boromir dropped his arm and scowled at his younger brother. At twenty, Boromir was strong of limb and but a year away from being named Captain General of Gondor's armies. Presently he was sparring, or rather attempting to spar, with his fifteen year old brother. "Faramine I have told you repeatedly," he sighed exasperatedly, "You must keep your guard up_

"_I am trying," responded Faramir, wiping his sweat soaked brow on the sleeve of his tunic. Boromir fought bare chested in this private sparring yard where the children of the Stewards had always been given their sword lessons, but Faramir was too self conscious of his immature body to follow suit._

"_Again," Boromir urged, bringing his sword over hand and then feinting to Faramir's unprotected ribs when the boy raised his sword up to block what he thought would be an overhead attack._

_A loud "thwap" was heard has Boromir's sword slapped flat against Faramir's side. "You would be dead now, in case you have any doubts."_

_A kindly chuckle was heard from off to the side where Ancir, erstwhile brother in heart to the pair was watching with interest. Having been raised with Boromir and later Faramir after the death of his mother, Ancir was destined to be Adjutant to Boromir, and by his side for as long as the gods allowed. Son of Lord Forlong of Lossarnach, and a Lord in his own right, Ancir was where he chose to be...beside the House of Hurin._

_Frustrated and near tears, the laugh from Ancir was the final straw for the younger boy. He flung down his sword. "I cannot do it; I will **never** be you!" The tears starting to fall, Faramir turned to flee, but was caught into the strong arms of his brother. _

"_You are not meant to be **me**, Puss," soothed Boromir, as he pulled the struggling boy into his embrace and shared a look with Ancir over Faramir's shoulder_

_As soon as he saw the reaction from Faramir, Ancir was immediately contrite. Having survived the rites of passage from youth into manhood only a few years before, both young men were acutely aware of the changes happening within Faramir and how difficult this time was for him. As clumsy as a puppy, the boy simply would never have the hefty build of his older brother, whose thick arms were suited to the Broad Sword, but more likely would make an excellent bowman. The rub was that Faramir could keep his mind on neither swords or bows at the moment and wanted only to hide away with the scrolls in the archives until his body had completed its metamorphosis._

_As the youth sniffed into his brother's shoulder, Ancir's hand grasped his shoulder. "Forgive me, Faramir; I did not mean to cause you distress." _

_Faramir lifted watery eyes. "It was not you, Ancir; it was me," he said miserably. "I am simply not suited to this life that my heritage has destined for me." _

_The raw pain in his eyes touched the young man deeply, and he longed for the words of reassurance to ease the young one's misery._

"_It is not that I do not want to serve Gondor," Faramir continued, "but that I am utterly useless."_

"_Not so," swore Boromir holding his brother at arm's length. "You are still a youth, Faramir, with much growing yet to do."_

"_But you..." began Faramir, only to be interrupted by Boromir._

"_I," Boromir stressed, "am five years older than you, and of a completely different build." His eyes sought those of his brother to drive home the point he wished to make. "Not all who serve do so with a sword in their hands."_

"_Wh...what do you mean?" asked the boy, confused by his brother's words, for as a member of the House of Hurin, Faramir had been raised to know that his highest calling in life would be to defend Gondor. _

"_It is like this," interjected Ancir, picking up the thread that Boromir had started. "Some battles are won with force of arms, and some are won by the force of the mind."_

"_You see, Puss," smiled Boromir, "sometimes stealth and cunning can be our greatest weapons."_

"_And not just brute strength," finished Ancir. "You, Faramir, are smarter that the dunce here and I by far."_

"_Hey," protested Boromir, glad to be the source ofcomic relief his little one needed. Faramir actually smiled. He knew what they were doing, of course, but it did not matter. What could matter when one was loved so much by two such as these? "I will make you both proud; I promise."_

"_Faramir?" The boy frowned because it was not Boromir's voice that he heard coming from his brother's mouth.._

"Faramir?"

The Steward opened his eyes to find an embarrassed Hamm shaking his shoulder.

"I fell asleep, my lord," the man apologized. "Forgive me."

Faramir shook his head, as much to clear his mind of the force of his dream as of the cobwebs of sleep. "No matter," he soothed. "Had the enemy come upon you, there was naught you could have done."

Hamm snorted. "I could have died with my eyes open," he said drolly, drawing a chuckle from Faramir.

"Who is going to die?" asked Dageth groggily, sitting up from where he slept.

"I am, if I do not get some sleep soon," responded Faramir wearily, "But first we must devise our plans."

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn stood before the barred window watching the dawn paint the landscape in soft pink, highlighting the foliage of the trees already brilliant in their late season splendor. Soon the leaves would be gone and the snows would begin, but none of these thoughts occupied the Shield Maiden as she stared out.

She was tired...so very tired, from standing at the window all night hoping that Faramir might reappear. And yet, she dreaded his appearance as well, for fear that he would be caught and killed. She could not think straight any longer. She felt grubby and stiff after being here for so long where she daren't risk removing her clothes to sleep for fear that Gilmóod or one of his henchmen would appear without warning. What she would not give for a weapon right now!

Giving up her vigil at the window, Éowyn began pacing the room as she tried to order her thoughts and still her fears for Faramir. She had seen no soul, save the woman who brought her food twice a day, and remained until the lady had finished eating to remove the dishes...all of them. It was disgusting and degrading, for no utensils were provided for fear that they could be utilized as weapons, and Éowyn was forced to use her hands to feed herself. The kindly woman always turned away to allow the future Princess of Ithilien a semblance of privacy as she was forced to eat in such a way.

Éowyn had given up imploring Margeth to secret a dagger within her skirts, for it only upset the woman, who was clearly as much a prisoner of this group as she, and because it made Éowyn feel as though she were begging.

Keys rattling outside the door alerted Éowyn that her breakfast was being brought. As the old woman fumbled with the lock while juggling a food try, Éowyn walked over to sit down on the bed. She had learned to do so in order to put Margeth at ease, for it seemed the woman had been told what would be done to her if Éowyn should escape while under her care. Éowyn would do anything to get back at Gilmóod, but she would not put an innocent at risk to do so.

The heavy door creaked open with Margeth pushing against it with her shoulder. Once inside she used her foot to push is closed again. The old woman was trembling so that the mug on the tray was in danger of turning over. Éowyn was immediately on her feet taking the tray from her shaking hands. Éowyn quickly sat the tray aside and took Margeth's arms to steady her.

"Here mother," she said soothingly, as she led her over to a chair. "Sit here."

Margeth sat down heavily and sagged against the Shield Maiden, who was knelt in front of her. The woman's frail shoulders shook as she sobbed in Éowyn's arms.

"What has happened?" Éowyn asked kindly.

"My Barech," Margeth managed to get out between sobs, "he did not appear for work this morning." The woman took a shuddering breath and began wiping at her eyes with her apron. "He will be punished, if he has not already been dragged to the mines."

"Perhaps he is only late or ..." Éowyn's voice trailed off before she voiced the suggestion that he could be ill. That thought would likely not be a welcomed one either.

"Oh no, my lady," said Margeth. "We are not ever allowed to be late...ever."

Éowyn's mind was racing. "Mother, I might be able to help you, but first you must overcome your fear."

Margeth's eyes mirrored equal amounts of hope and fear. "What do you need me to do, my lady?"

TBC

A/N: This is another short chapter, but I thought you would rather a short chapter now than a longer one later.


	33. Liberty or Death

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty Three**

**Liberty or Death**

"**_Is life so dear, or peace so sweet as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death." Patrick Henry_**

"**_Whenever I hear any one arguing for slavery I feel a strong impulse to see it tried on him personally."_********_Abraham Lincoln_**

_Éowyn's mind was racing. "Mother, I might be able to help you, but first you must overcome your fear."_

_Margeth's eyes mirrored equal amounts of hope and fear. "What do you need me to do, my lady?"_

The door crashing open startled both women. Éowyn quickly moved in front of the old woman, shielding her with her body. "Stay behind me, mother," she said urgently.

The man in the doorway swayed even though he stood with his feet planted widely apart. His blackened eyes and twisted nose lent him a grotesque appearance, and he reeked of ale.

"You are drunk," Éowyn spat. "How dare you enter this room uninvited?" Éowyn could feel Margeth shaking as the woman held onto her arm. She was clearly terrified of the man.

"Oh, I dare many things, _Shield Maiden_," the man sneered, though it was hard to tell if the sneer was meant or if it was a permanent fixture because of the hideous scar running the length of his face.

Éowyn was surprised to hear herself referred to in that term by someone from Snowbourne who had not been at the Pelennor.

"Do not look so surprised; we heard of your exploits even here," he explained haughtily. Scaro noticed Éowyn's eyes assessing his disfigurement. He ran his knife along the edge of the scar as though outlining it. "Noticed this, did you?" he questioned. "Your brother did this to me," he informed her. "And I shall greatly enjoy using my knife on him."

Éowyn could literally feel the blood draining from her face, though she forced her chin up in defiance. In truth she felt nauseous at his words, but vainly tried to keep that from the man facing her.

Scaro enjoyed watching the beautiful woman before him trying to hide her disgust. He was used to that reaction from women and used it to feed his anger. "What is the matter?" He cocked his head to one side as he watched for her reaction. He was not surprised when she did not answer. "I thought the mighty warriors of Rohan were accustomed to scars...regarded them as badges of honor!"

"It is not your scar I find disgusting; it is yourself!" Éowyn countered.

Scaro growled. "You will not be so high and mighty when you are watching me skin your brother alive."

"If you touch him, I will kill you," Éowyn immediately responded, flashing back to the previous occasion when she had made that vow. Remembering that she had faced the Witch King made the man before her seem much less menacing.

Scaro's eyebrow hitched. "Bravely spoken, but a futile hope, my dear," he crooned. "Gilmóod thinks to save you for himself, but I shall have you first."

He watched her eyes shift from his own to something just over his shoulder and the thrill of warning caught his breath.

Éowyn gasped as a bloody blade suddenly protruded from Scaro's middle.

Scaro's last thought, as he looked down at the blade sticking out of his stomach was that he would not live to see all his carefully laid plans succeed.

Éowyn grimaced as the sword was removed from Scaro with a sickening sucking sound. The man fell dead and she found herself looking at the strikingly handsome face of Gilmóod. Her pulse quickened as he ordered Margeth to leave them. As the old woman hurried to follow his bidding he caught her arm. "Send two of my men to retrieve this refuse."

"Yes, my lord," Margeth murmured. Her shoulders once again bent in hopelessness.

O-o-O-o-O

As Faramir napped, Hamm tended the fire and prepared a light meal consisting oat cakes, water and as a special treat, roasted hare. The unlucky hare had happened into the cave and been trapped by Hamm, who quickly dispatched the animal and prepared him for roasting. They were going to be fighting soon and would need all the strength they had. The farrier had made the decision that the benefits, both physical and emotional, of the treat of fresh meat was worth the rare threat of the scent of the roasting meat possibly alerting someone to their location.

Dageth had awakened a short while earlier and now sat with his back against the cold stone of the wall. Gently, the warrior began flexing and stretching muscles in an attempt to overcome the enforced inactivity of the past days. "How long did I sleep?"

"Most of the night," Hamm answered.

"You should have awakened me," argued Dageth.

"No," Hamm shook his head, "you needed your rest." He snorted softly. "Besides, I fell asleep myself."

"You...fell...asleep?" Dageth asked, rather astounded that the man would admit to such. Discipline in the éoreds was such that no warrior on guard would dare to doze. But then again, he reasoned quickly, Hamm was not in the éoreds and unused to the rigors of such.

Hamm easily read the look Dageth had quickly tried to mask and his guilt intensified. "I am sorry, Dageth."

"No, it is I who am sorry," replied Dageth. "I should not have made it sound as though I am judging you."

"I deserved it," said Hamm gloomily.

"Listen to me, Hamm," urged Dageth. "I could not create shoes for our horses, nor attach them, for I have not the skills." He kept his eyes on the farrier to emphasize his seriousness. "We each do a different job that requires different abilities."

"Yet the truth is," Hamm said thoughtfully, "I have allowed myself to become a bit soft." He chuckled ruefully. "This scouting trip with Lord Faramir has shown me that!"

Dageth's eyes strayed to the sleeping Steward. He was still somewhat in awe of who he was and what he represented. "What is he like?"

"He is kind, skilled, and an excellent scout," said Hamm immediately. "He is also immensely likeable."

"Likeable?" questioned Dageth.

"When I first met him," continued Hamm, "I was awed by his title and the memory of his brother, but he put me at ease."

Dageth's eyebrows climbed. "You knew Lord Boromir?"

"Yes, I knew him," the farrier replied softly, not yet willing to share his history with the rider.

"Lord Boromir spent time in Edoras with Prince Théodred," recalled Dageth. "I saw him then, but certainly cannot say that I ever knew him." Dageth moved over to spell the man in turning the roasting hare. "Though it was evident to all who saw them together that he and the Prince were as close as brothers, and that endeared him to us as well."

"He was larger than life," murmured Hamm, lost momentarily in the memory of the young man who had freed him from slavery, "and I owe him my life." He sat back on his heels as though lost in thought.

Dageth pretended to be busy with the fire rather than pursuing that softly spoken comment because it was clear that it was something which the farrier was not comfortable discussing. "Well I can vouch for the Steward's strength," he chuckled rubbing his chest. "When he knocked me down it felt as though one of your anvils had crashed into me."

Hamm smiled and nodded. "You looked fairly surprised, that is for sure."

"Surprised?" snorted the scout. "I could not breathe!"

A sleepy voice interrupted the softly spoken conversation. "Is it dark yet?"

"No, my lord," answered Hamm automatically, "it is still a couple of hours away."

Faramir sat up, rubbing his gritty feeling eyes. "I thought we did away with that title days ago."

"We did, my...Faramir." The farrier smiled. "But when we return to Edoras I shall resume addressing you in the respectful manner your office clearly deserves."

"Fair enough," conceded the Steward. Faramir sat up and grew serious. "Dageth, before we steal into the caves tonight, you and I will dispatch any guards that are nearby; we must take them quickly and soundlessly." He turned to Hammock. "You will proceed into the caves while we are doing that and find Gambling and Erkenbrand."

Both men nodded their understanding.

The brush moving at the mouth of the cave alerted the three men to cease movement. Faramir's heart sunk even as he reached for his knife. If they were discovered now he would have no hope of getting to Éowyn. To his surprise and relief, Hálith's head poked through the leaves. The boy's face was painted in a big smile.

"Hálith," breathed Faramir, "thank the gods you are safe."

"I am safe," replied the boy, "and I have brought reinforcements." Following immediately behind Hálith, came Liam and ten warriors.

"Where is the King?" questioned Dageth.

The look Liam shared with Hálith was not lost on the three men.

"What has happened?" asked Faramir.

Liam knelt beside the trio and motioned for the rest of the men to do the same. "Get some rest while you may," he instructed the warriors, "for you have had a hard day's ride."

Hamm's eyes widened in alarm. "The horses...they will be observed!"

"The horses have been secured well away from here," Liam said, shaking his head. "No one will find them."

"What happened, Liam?" asked Faramir. "Where is Éomer?" He knew that it would take something momentous to keep Éomer from riding to his sister's aid.

"The King is returning to Edoras," answered Liam. "The city is under attack."

"Attack?" repeated Hamm, not quite believing what he was hearing. "From where...who?"

"Wildmen...hundreds of them, if the messenger was correct."

Faramir's eyes hardened. "So this was all a diversion."

"Possibly," Liam conceded. "I cannot say for sure."

"Are these all the men you have with you?" questioned the Steward.

At Liam's nodded answer, Faramir straightened his shoulder, every bit the battle hardened Ranger and leader. "Then listen well, for this is our plan."

O-o-O-o-O

As soon as Faramir had left his home just before the break of dawn, Barech had begun going door to door seeking help. The people he spoke to were afraid, and they had good reason to be afraid, but they were also determined. They had lived under the yoke of Gilmóod far too long and were ready to throw it off or die trying. The people of Rohan were far too stubborn and independent to live long as slaves.

Barech went first to the home where Hillis lived with her parents. He had told no one that he had seen Raolf, and dared not mention that now, lest the young woman do something foolish like attempting to see her intended. He warned her to keep all the children indoors no matter what she heard, for there was liable to bloodshed this night.

The man spent the day reaching all that he could and spelling out Faramir's plan with them. If Gilmóod sent anyone to his house seeking him they would find it empty. Of course, the chances were that Gilmóod would not even detect his absence. So long as his cup was kept filled and his plate appeared when he was hungry he was not likely to notice, and one of the other men had agreed to make sure Barech's tasks were covered to that he could make preparations during the day.

After the people had gone off to begin their duties, Barech began gathering any tools he could find that could be utilized as weapons. He had to be careful to avoid being seen by any of the guards, but that was not too difficult. They had become lax in their arrogance and did not often patrol through the section where the homes of the workers were located.

Barech secreted the weapons in an empty house next door to his own and waited. His heart pounded with the enormity of what he was doing and he realized that he could well be dead before another dawn. Well, so be it, he determined. He would not live any longer as a slave, and he could not bear the thought of his proud son doing so either. If he was destined to die tonight, then he would do so as a free man fighting back against oppression.

O-o-O-o-O

Wendel eased his head up to look over the wall at the onslaught. Glancing down at the pitifully few arrows remaining, he realized that this might well be the last charge they would be able to dispel. He sat down beside Ardon. "This could be it, my friend," he said softly, so as not to be heard by any of the other men, though that was unlikely as so few of them remained on the wall that they were well spread out. "We can hold off one, possibly two more attacks, but that is all."

Ardon looked over at his new found friend. The men had barely left he wall for several days. Their arms were so sore from the constant firing of arrows that it was misery to lift them. "Then we must make provisions for the wounded, women and children."

"I know," Wendel said softly. "We still have time..." He let the sentence trail off.

Ardon shook his head sadly. "No, we do not." He looked up the hill towards the Meduseld, where the wounded had all been taken. "Once they are inside the walls it will be too late."

"How could it come to this?" Wendel closed his eyes as though he could deny the truth. "In Béma's name, I do not know if I can put my blade into a babe."

Ardon too closed his eyes at the sickening thought. "If we do not, you _know_ what the hillmen will do to them..."

"I know," Wendel admitted softly. "I have seen with my own eyes what has been done to helpless families on the plains."

"Then you know what must be done."

"Aye," whispered Wendel.

"My father was a butcher; did I tell you that?"

Wendel looked at Ardon as though he had lost his mind. Here they were contemplating the impossible and the man from Gondor was talking about his childhood.

"There is an almost painless way to ease the innocents past the veil," he continued softly. "You simply make a quick cut here," he motioned along the side of his neck with his finger showing the guard what he meant. "They will quickly lose blood and drift off as though asleep."

"I would not want the children to be afraid," said Wendel.

"They will not be," assured Ardon. "We will be quick and careful not to frighten them."

Wendel sighed. "Then let us see it done." He heaved himself up to a standing position, dodging the arrows coming over the wall. As he reached down to offer a hand up to Ardon, the sound of the horns reached his ears. "Ardon, listen!" He grinned fiercely at the Gondorian guard. "The King!"

TBC


	34. Let This Be the Hour

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty**-**Four**

**Let This be the Hour When We Draw Swords Together **

"_**Whoever does not have the stomach for this fight, let him depart. Give him money to speed his departure since we do not wish to die in that man's company. Whoever lives past today and comes home safely will rouse himself each year on this day and show his neighbor his scars, and tell embellished stories of all their great feats of battle. These stories he will teach his son and from this day until the end of the world we shall be remembered. We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; for whoever has shed his blood with me shall be my brother. And those men afraid to go will think themselves lesser men as they hear how we fought and died together." Shakespeare "Henry V"**_

**O-o-O-o-O**

_Wendil sighed. "Then let us see it done." He heaved himself up to a standing position, dodging the arrows coming over the wall. As he reached down to offer a hand up to Ardon, the sound of the horns reached his ears. "Ardon, listen!" He grinned fiercely at the Gondorian guard. "The King!"_

Ardon looked up at Wendil in surprise. "What?"

"The horns," exclaimed the guard, his long face breaking into an even wider grin. "Do you not hear them?" He reached down to pull Ardon to his feet. "The King has returned!"

"Éomer?" stammered Ardon, so exhausted that he did still not understand.

"Of course," laughed Wendil, turning the man around and pointing over the wall. "Look and you shall see the charge of Horse Lords!" The guard of Rohan was nearly giddy with relief, his fatigue forgotten. If he lived to be a very old man, his heart would never recover from what he had nearly been forced to do...the dispatching of the innocents within the Meduseld.

Outside the walls, the hill men too heard the sounds of the horns ringing across the plain and turned to face the threat. Panic filled their hearts, for they had been told that the éoreds would be away from Edoras! Caught between the walls of the city and certain annihilation under the hooves and spears of the Horse Lords, the wild men did exactly what would be expected…they fled in disarray.

Éomer halted the riders on a slight rise while he viewed the situation. His city was obviously hurting. He could see some fires still burning within, but the gates held. The proud heart of Rohan was battered but not beaten. The condition of Edoras ascertained, the King turned his attention to the marauders, and his legendary anger was kindled. He knew only too well how few were the men who had been holding against the siege for these days. No doubt they were exhausted and worn down by injury. He eyed the fires and realized that they were in danger of spreading.

Éomer turned to the man riding beside him. "Follow the hillmen, Fingol," the King ordered, "and bring back our horses!" The king was not in a forgiving mood given what had been done to the Breeding Station and now to his city.

Fingol grinned fiercely. "You give me a great honor, my King!" He pulled his horse forward. "My éored to me," he called. As his riders divided themselves from the King's Guard, Éomer rode forward on Firefoot. He turned the great horse to face his guard. "Since the reign of Brego Edoras has been our city." Slowly he pulled Gúthwinë from its sheath and hefted the great sword into the air as his men gave a shout. "Our city needs us!" he called wheeling Firefoot. "Forth Eorlingas!"

"To the King!" echoed his guard, as the hooves of their mounts thundered across the field toward Edoras.

O-o-O-o-O

While Faramir and the others slept during the daylight hours, Dageth drew a detailed map of the compound and the area around the mines. It would be especially useful to the men who had just arrived. The scout searched his mind for as many features as he could remember knowing that with so few of them to undertake this mission, every detail could be vital.

While Dageth worked on his map, Hamm sharpened his knife and worried about Hálith. The boy was too young to be going into battle, but he knew Hálith would protest if left behind. Worse, he might be tempted to follow them and find himself in real trouble.

Towards dusk, Faramir roused up and shook Liam, who was sleeping next to him. "It is time to awaken your men."

Liam sat up quickly and began moving down the line of sleeping men.

"Faramir," Hamm said softly, drawing the Steward's attention. "What of Hálith?"

Faramir glanced at the sleeping boy, easily understanding the farrier's concern. "We dare not leave him here," he concluded, "he would only follow us."

"I agree," nodded Hamm, "but we cannot take him into battle either."

"No," agreed Faramir, "we will not take him into battle."

"Then what?"

"Leave that to me, Hamm," Faramir replied. "I will not see the boy come to harm."

"What is this?" Liam interrupted, indicating the drawing in the dirt floor.

"That is Snowbourne and its surroundings," explained Dageth, as the men moved close to examine the makeshift map. The scout quickly outlined the general area and then began a more detailed description showing the best route to the mine as well as the outbuilding where most of Gilmóod's men were housed. When he was finished with the explanations, he looked expectantly at Faramir. "What is your plan, my Lord?"

O-o-O-o-O

As he sat watching Anor sink below the mountains, Barech contemplated his last night of slavery. One way or another when a new day began he would be free or he would be dead, of that he had no doubt. The old man gave a sigh and rose from where he sat on a plank bench outside the humble cottage he shared with Margeth. The couple raised their sons here, and now only one of their precious boys still lived. With a last glance at the dying light, he went inside.

Barech tidied the blankets on the bed and washed up the mug and plate that were sitting on the table. He might never be here again, and he would not leave his home unkempt for another to find. His Margeth would not like that. Barech closed his eyes and offered a quick prayer for her safety and for her understanding. He would have liked to have had the chance to discuss all this with his wife before hand, for she was a good judge of character and he trusted her council, but that had not been possible. He just prayed that she would forgive him if Lord Faramir's plans were unsuccessful and his death resulted.

When it was dusky dark outside, he stole next door into the empty cot where he had stored the weapons for his part of the attack. As he took stock of the gathered arsenal, he snorted softly to himself. Weapons was a lofty term for such a motley assortment of spades, axes, and flails, accompanied by two sickles and one lone scythe. "Aye," he chuckled ruefully, "weapons, indeed!" What was it Faramir had said? _One brave man fighting for his home was worth a dozen minions of evil. _'I hope you are right,' Barech sighed to himself, 'I do hope you are right.'

The door opened and closed swiftly interrupting his thoughts. It was Áríc, the father of Hillis. Barech gasped and spun towards the door. "Áríc, you gave me quite a fright!"

"Sorry," apologized the white haired man. A smithy in his prime, Áríc had passed his trade on to his son. When the younger men were all pressed into service in the mines, the younger smithy was taken with them. Since then Áríc had been forced to serve again. His arms had not the strength of his youth, but the man still retained a force that was masked by his white hair and gentle face. "I gathered up a few of the tools from the smithy that we might find useful."

'Good!" declared Barech, "we need all the tools we can find."

O-o-O-o-O

With the fall of darkness the men in the mines collapsed after yet another back breaking day's work. Gathered in the nook where they had been sleeping, Raolf and Gamling sat next to Erkenbrand tending his injuries. The foreman had refused to allow the Marshal any extra rest even though his injuries could easily have been fatal to a lesser man. At night the pair would tend him as best they could aided by the meager supplies brought by Barech. Gamling was convinced that Erkenbrand would have died without the medicine to counteract his fever. "Your father is a good and brave man, Raolf," he said, almost surprised he'd spoken the words aloud.

Raolf looked up from were he was spreading the arnica slave onto Erkenbrand's back. "Aye, he is that, though I did not always appreciate that truth when I was growing up."

Gamling chuckled. "Most lads do not."

"Have you son's then?" asked Raolf

"No," replied Gamling resignedly. "My Berga and I have not been blessed with children."

Erkenbrand moaned as Raolf soothed the salve onto some of the old lash wounds broken open by fresh strokes administered by the sadistic taskmaster that morning. The cowards loved to torment Erkenbrand, always trying to break down the proud Marshal, for his strength and honor showed them up for the pitiful men were, and they hated him for it.

"I am sorry for the pain I cause you, my Lord," Raolf said softly. "The salve should begin to deaden some of the pain soon.

"Enough," growled Erkenbrand, pulling his cloak across his back and attempting to stand. "I grow weary of cowering in the darkness!"

"Lay back down this instant, you old coot!" replied Gamling, not a bit affected by his bluster.

Raolf's eyes grew wide and his mouth literally fell open at the Chief of Guard's words. To a man of the éoreds, a Marshal was a terrible and mighty thing…revered, and second only to the King. It amazed him to hear the banter of the two old friends. It had been two years since Marshal Garoth had led his men, and he had, in fact, lost their respect as he spent more and more of his time in the manor house while his second ran the day to day duties with the éored.

"Down," Gamling instructed again as Erkenbrand teetered on his knees. After a moment the Marshal nodded, sighed expressively, and lay back down. "There now," Gamling commented, "crisis averted." He nodded towards Raolf. "You may now continue treating my stiff-necked friend's back."

"My Lord?" Raolf asked Erkenbrand hesitantly.

"Oh, go ahead," growled the Marshal. He allowed the younger man to pull back the cloak covering his disfigured back. "It's damned humiliating to have to receive special treatment when I have men here that are under the same conditions."

Gamling snorted. "None of your men received the maltreatment that you received."

"You are lucky to be alive, my Lord," agreed Raolf. "There is no shame in surviving the ordeal you were put through!"

"See there," smiled Gamling, "the voice of reason." He dipped his fingers into the pot and began rubbing the salve on to Erkenbrand's legs. He knew how hard it was for this proud man to accept this kindness, not to mention the intimacy of the touch, but to Gamling's way of thinking, his life was worth far more than his pride. "You would do the same for any of us."

"Doing and receiving are two very different things," said the Marshal wryly.

His words brought a smile to Gamling's face, for he knew now that Erkenbrand had resigned himself to the necessity of his care.

"I wonder what is keeping my father tonight?" worried Raolf.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir met the eyes of the men inside the cave. It was indeed now time to spell out his plan, such as it was. He wished he had more time to think of something better, but there was just none. Taking a deep breath, he launched into his orders. "Gilmóod is arrogant and we will use that against him." He pointed to the outer defense perimeter as sketched by Dageth. "He places all of his sentries this far out, expecting only attack from without."

The men listened to Faramir outline his plan, watching as he pointed out different points on the map. Dageth would lead Liam and his men towards the mines. The two men judged by Liam to be able to move with the most stealth would silently take out the two lone guards at the mine entrance. Any resistance from within the mine had long since been discounted. That was part of the reason the men had been worked nearly to death. Once inside the mines, the men of Rohan would find Gamling and Erkenbrand and lead all the men from the mines down the back way towards the homes of the people of Snowbourne.

Faramir had learned from Barech that most of the hill men recently arrived were being housed in a separate and nearly dilapidated bunkhouse beyond the stables. They were shunned by Gilmóod's men, and spent their nights getting drunk. The men with Gilmóod should be feasting and doing their own share of drinking in the manor house by this time. Faramir planned to use all this to their advantage. Then Barech would lead his group towards the bunk house. While part of them led the horses out of the stable to remove them from any use to the enemy, the others would take prisoner any hill men leaving the bunk house.

Once they were armed with the tools gathered by Barech, Dageth, Liam and the rest would surround the Manor House and begin moving by stealth through the back entrance, which would be left open by the workers there. On Faramir's signal they would rush the main room from both the front and the back.

"What about me?" asked Hálith, who had been listening for his name to be called.

Faramir met his gaze and smiled. "You and I are going after Éowyn."

TBC


	35. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

**For Whom the Bell Tolls**

"**_Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." John Donne_**

Gilmóod was in a fine mood this eve. Killing always lifted his disposition, particularly if he could use his knife. True enough, he had used his sword to dispatch Scaro, but it had still been up close and personal, and he had still felt the warm gush of blood on his hands and scented the acrid smell. Ah, life was too good to him these days. The man felt utterly invincible.

Sitting up, the self-styled Master of Snowbourne, motioned again for Bewon, his chief aid...well, chief aide since the not-so-unfortunate demise of Scaro. As Bewon drew near, Gilmóod indicated that he should take the seat beside him. Gilmóod was currently enjoying his evening repast, a veritable feast that he held each night while the pathetic, in his eyes, residents of Snowbourne were fortunate to have gruel or watered down soup each eve. As it was, Gilmóod considered himself quite benevolent that he even allowed the older population to live. After all, they were no help in the mines, and he only needed so many to work in the manor house seeing to his comfort. And, did he not allow them access to the worthless leavings of his dinner table each night? Why the bones from this meal alone would make soup for several days! Yes, he concluded, taking a deep swig of his ale, he was quite merciful.

After Bewon was served, Gilmóod fixed him with a half drunken stare. "Tell me again what you did with his body."

Bewon grinned, enjoying his new found favor with the master. "I fixed it to a pole out front as warning."

Gilmóod sat back roaring his laughter. "It seems I have my very own Scaro the crow-scare! All the men in attendance dutifully laughed, though the truth be known, most of them were so drunk by this time that they would have found most any anecdote funny.

"Shall I set up another pole to display the body of Erkenbrand?" suggested Bewon. The fool was well into his cups now and quite enjoying being the center of attention. It would have served him better to remember that Gilmóod did not like to share the attention. However, this night Gilmóod was too mellow to mind. "After all," Bewon bragged, "the fool can surely not live much longer."

A barked snort was heard from across the table. "Not when you so enjoy beating him every day!" called a burly, raven haired man, setting off a round a raucous laughter.

"How am I to produce enough to make a profit with you beating my skeletons to death so often?" begged another. He turned an entreating eye towards the head table. "My Lord Gilmóod, can you not turn his vengeance in another direction?"

Bewon was on his feet in seconds, his hands around the neck of the unfortunate speaker. "They were too good to let me be one of their oh-so-vaunted éored; now I show them what their arrogance costs them!"

"Enough, Bewon," called Gilmóod, waving his hand in the direction of the two men. "Leave enough of them alive to work the mines!"

From the wall behind Gilmóod's head table, Áríc stood at attention. After reviewing the plans one last time with Barech, the man had taken his place serving in the manor house. The cooks all knew to leave the door to the kitchens unsecured and to run immediately once the men began to slip inside.

Of course, cooks are a feisty bunch. These women had suffered the insults and deprivations along with the rest and were not about to creep away and miss the action. Oh no, these were women of Rohan, and they were preparing plenty of boiling water to be used as weapons. Additionally, a couple of them considered themselves to be quite handy with a butcher knife. They would help their men win this battle or they would die trying! One way or another, this long nightmare would soon end for them.

O-o-O-o-O

Margeth brought Éowyn her tray of food with fresh energy in her step and hope in her heart. "Oh mistress," she breathed, setting the tray down on the table.

"What is it," Éowyn asked, for the excitement in the woman was readily evident to the Shield Maiden. "What has happened?"

"There is much happening tonight..." Margeth looked guiltily over her shoulder just to be sure the door was securely closed. She took Éowyn's hand and led her to the far side of the room just to be sure she would not be overheard. "We are finally fighting back!"

Éowyn's eyes shone. "Tell me, Margeth; tell me everything!" Éowyn listened as the woman quickly outlined all she knew. "Faramir," she breathed, "it must be Faramir!" The shield maiden's heart leapt in hope even as her mind was racing. "A weapon...can you get me weapon?"

Margeth smiled. "I knew you would be asking me that, Mistress." She reached into one of the deep pockets of her serving apron and pulled out a meat cleaver. "It is not a sword, my Lady," she apologized, "but it is the best I could do."

Éowyn would have welcomed a paring knife at this point, so tired was she of feeling helpless and unarmed. She took the cleaver from Margeth and reveled in the feel of it in her hand. "It will work wonderfully!"

Margeth could not help but chuckle in appreciation at the Shield Maiden. "I may be an old woman, but I am willing to fight for my home too."

Éowyn sat the cleaver down onto the table and took hold of Margeth's hands. "We will all fight for Snowbourne," she replied with conviction.

O-o-O-o-O

Dageth and Hamm led Liam and his ten men from the cave. Faramir had insisted they leave off their helms and any piece of armor that would impede stealthy movement. He gave the Horse Lords a crash course in how to move and wage war as a Ranger. Thankfully Hamm had been observing Faramir's skills for several days, and he was able to work with the men as well.

The men quickly progressed along the hillside staying as close to the shadows as they could. Considering how little experience they had at this type of soldiering, they did well. The closest thing to a mishap they had was when Liam's foot slipped off the path in the darkness sending a cascade of pebbles down the hillside. All of the men immediately dropped, waiting to hear if any alarm was sounded, but none came. Apparently the invaders of Snowbourne were as careless as their leader was cocky.

Hamm took over the lead once they neared the mines. The farrier not only gained skills from Faramir on their trip to teach Hálith about scouting, but he also remembered all too well the lessons acquired during his captivity by the Haradrim. He held up his fist to signal the group behind him to still, and motioned Liam to come forward with him. Liam and Hamm were going forward alone to neutralize the two guards at the mine entrance. Once that was done they would signal the remaining men to move forward. The Rohirrim had no idea what to expect once they moved inside…no idea what the conditions of the men inside would be. Liam had reiterated to them before they left the cave that no matter what the condition of the men, they would complete this mission.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Hamm steeled himself to do what must be done. He hoped he had turned his back on this kind of violence when Lord Boromir saved him from Jahalobad. The farrier forced his mind away from that place in his past where so much pain still existed, and nodded his readiness to Liam.

O-o-O-o-O

Barech's heart was beating so fast he thought it might burst, but whether from fear or excitement he was not really sure. The plan was for him to wait with the other townsmen to help contain any of the hill men, but the old butler simply could not remain away from the manor house, not when Margeth was there, and Raolf would undoubtedly be there for the final battle. No, to stay away simply could not be countenanced!

The old man slipped in the back door of the manor house just as Áríc was entering the kitchens from the main room.

"Barech," he hissed, glancing nervously over his shoulder, "what are you doing here?"

"I could not stay away…not with Margeth here in danger!" He looked entreatingly at his friend and neighbor. "Could you stay away if your wife was here?"

"No," Áríc sighed, "I suppose I could not." He went to work layering various meats onto the trencher he held while he spoke. "They are doing a lot of drinking tonight."

Barech smiled. "That is good…keep their mugs filled."

"I shall," he grinned fiercely, "as well as keeping plenty of salty meat in front of them!"

"Áríc!" called one of the servers, entering through the main doors, "hurry, he is calling for more meat!"

As Áríc went back to the main room, Barech approached one of the cooks. "Where is Margeth?

"She took food and a weapon upstairs to her ladyship," answered the cook.

Barech sighed in relief. He did not want her inside the main hall when the battle erupted. In fact, he would be perfectly happy for Margeth to remain upstairs with the King's sister, for he felt sure that Lord Faramir would keep his intended as far from the fighting as he could, even if _she_ did not want to be kept from it. After all, he reasoned, it was one thing for a man to know his lady love could fight and quite another to send her into a battle!

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir and Hálith left the cave at the same time the men did, but in a different direction. Faramir led Hálith back to the manor house, taking care not to arouse any notice. The Ranger had even made friends with the dogs that lived around the village so that even after scenting their friend, they did not set up a racket as he crept along towards the back of the house.

Éowyn did not know it, but Faramir had journeyed to the house several times since the night he revealed himself to her. Each time he scaled the vines seeking entry to the house. Finding none of the windows to be unlatched, he sent word through Barech for Margeth to unlatch the window two down from where Éowyn was being held. That window was not barred. Margeth managed to make sure it was unlocked and reported to Barech that it led to a small storage room.

Hálith watched from the shadows as Faramir quickly scaled the outside wall. Clinging to the window facing, he eased the window open and disappeared inside. After a moment he stuck his head back out the window and motioned for the boy to follow him. Hálith grinned, excitement at going on a real mission overcoming any fear he might have.

As soon as Hálith drew even with the window, Faramir grabbed the boy and hauled him inside the small, dark room. Muted laugher could be heard coming from downstairs, a stark reminder that this was no mere exercise.

"Stay here while I check the hallway," Faramir whispered. The Steward pulled the door ajar and peered out. All was clear in his line of sight, but he listened for any noise before pulling the door open a bit more. Hálith started to move forward, but Faramir held up his hand to halt the boy's motion. Faramir had trained with many Rangers, and he knew that the patience it required was the hardest part for them to learn, especially when nerves were already stretched taut with anticipation. It was, in fact, the main reason that most failed in their bid to be Rangers. It took a certain kind of courage to creep within speaking distance of the enemy and remain still when they were just a breath away.

Faramir eased the door closed and edged back towards Hálith. "The way seems clear, but stay behind me." He put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Should we be discovered, get back here and leave by the window."

Hálith opened his mouth to protest, but Faramir cut him off. "That is non-negotiable, young friend." He squeezed Hálith's shoulder to signal his seriousness. "If all goes ill, make your way back to Harrowdale and send a warning to Éomer." Hálith immediately began shaking his head back and forth. Faramir pulled the boy close. "Your courage does you proud, but your first responsibility is to warn your King!" Faramir felt the boy's shoulder sag and knew he had won the argument.

The Steward pulled the door ajar once more and checked the hallway again. "Follow me."

TBC

A/N: See, I really am trying to update faster:)


	36. Women of Rohan

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

**Women of Rohan**

"**_If particular care and attention is not paid to the ladies, we are determined to foment a rebellion, and will not hold ourselves bound by any laws in which we have no voice or representation." Abigail Adams_**

For Susan W...Fara Fan!

Dear Béma, it was over...it was really over! Hildegard sat on the steps outside the Meduseld and watched as some of the last of the flames were beaten down. Even now the cook could see the King working side by side with his men to see that every last cinder was dead and no longer a threat to the city. For a night and a day they had battled the fires, getting one extinguished only to see another begin! Anor had once again hidden himself behind the mountains but she could see well by the light of flames still active. She smiled in appreciation as she admired the sweat soaked muscles of Éomer's back, for he had been obliged to remove his shirt at some point when it had been caught kindling an ember and in danger of becoming aflame! The fire light actually reflected quite admirably on such a well honed physique! 'Ah Théoden,' she mused, 'he does so proudly represent the line of Eorl!' The woman chuckled at her own flight of fancy. Well, old she might be, but dead she was not!

"What are you looking at so intently?"

Hildegard started guiltily. So caught up was she in her reverie that she had not even noted Berga's presence beside her.

Berga followed Hildegard's glance and chuckled. "Oh, I see!"

The two women giggled like girls, almost giddy. They had seen much death and destruction in the past few days, and even though not aware of how close they had come to being humanely dispatched beyond the veil, had both closed more than one pair of eyes in death during the siege.

"Well," Hildegard sighed, "I have wasted enough time out here. There are still wounded men inside in need of a hot meal."

"That has already been started," soothed Berga. "Please sit with me for just a while longer. I cannot bear to look at any more burns just now."

Hildegard was immediately concerned. "Is your stomach acting up again? You are carrying and must rest more, Berga!"

Berga's hands immediately went to her middle as though in awe. "I can still hardly believe it!"

"It is a blessing, that is for sure," agreed Hildegard. "Or, as Thela is so very fond of saying, it is a miracle!"

"Oh," blushed Berga, "at least the little one has stopped asking if Lord Faramir made a baby with me!"

Hildegard guffawed merrily. "I can still remember the look of abject horror on his face when she first said that!"

"I was so happy that night I hardly even remember it," Berga sighed. "How long ago it seems now."

"Happy times will be here again," Hildegard predicted, patting Berga's arm. "Our King has returned to save the city."

"But he did not bring Gamling home," fretted Berga, tears of fear and worry springing to her eyes. "He would have come to me if he were here."

"Now do not go borrowing trouble," soothed the cook. "Likely the King did not even make it to Snowbourne! See you Éowyn? No, because she is not here," Hildegard replied, answering her own question.

"That is true," nodded Berga, wiping her eyes with the healer's apron she wore. Her face brightened as she thought about Hildegard's words. "Éomer would have brought Éowyn home if he had made it all the way to Snowbourne." She smiled at the cook. "Forgive my silliness; I am overwrought and tired."

"Of course you are!" agreed Hildegard, "for you have worked day and night tending the wounded. Soon you will be able to get some more rest."

"But for now it is back to work," said Berga, her fears soothed. "The King has been fighting fires since he returned and is likely exhausted. I will prepare his rooms and be sure there is hot water awaiting him."

"And I know just the treat I shall have waiting for him!" added Hildegard.

"Apple cake?" guessed Berga, smiling knowingly.

"Of course!" grinned the cook. "Have you ever known Éomer to return to Edoras that he did _not _look for apple cake?"

"No," laughed Berga. "Since he was a boy, Éomer has adored your apple cake!" She shook her head in wonder. "Only Hildegard could have apple cake ready in the midst of a siege!"

Hildegard nodded knowingly at her friend. "It is in the worst of times that we all need a bit of apple cake to lift our spirits! So long as I am mistress of the King's kitchens, there will be apple cake waiting for Éomer!"

"Come then," laughed Berga. She stood up and held out a helping hand to the arthritic Hildegard. "Let us be sure that the King's home is ready to welcome him!"

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir led Hálith down the hallway towards Éowyn's room. The ranger's senses were alert to any sound of movement that might come from the stairway. As they reached Éowyn's door, Faramir paused. "Hálith," he said softly. "Take my knife." He quickly unsheathed his beautiful dagger and held it out for the boy. "This was a gift from my brother, and I would only leave it with one I trust."

Hálith's eyes grew wide as he looked down at the beautiful dagger. He could see the outline of the White Tree of Gondor carved on the blade. Reverently, he took the knife, looking back up to Faramir with puzzled eyes.

"I want you to protect Éowyn," the steward said earnestly. He pulled his eyes from the stairway to look into Hálith's young, frightened ones. "Should the battle go ill, take her back out the way we came in, and get her to Harrowdale."

Hálith was torn between his excitement at being part of the rescue and his fear of real battle, but pride in Faramir's faith in him overcame the fear. He could do this! "I will," he promised.

"I know," Faramir nodded. "I trained you," he added with a quick wink.

Faramir put his ear against the door, listening to see whether or not he could detect the sound of any guard inside. Hearing none, he slowly pulled on the door latch and eased the door open so that he could glance inside. Too late for him to prevent it the door gave a loud creak and he was forced to abandon stealth. Pulling his other knife he bound into the room prepared to take out any guard.

Éowyn and an old woman both jumped and gave a startled gasp.

Faramir noted with amusement the wicked looking cleaver held menacingly in Éowyn's hand. "I hope that you do not intend to use that on me!"

"Faramir!" Éowyn cried. She flung the weapon onto the table and threw herself in Faramir's arms. "You are safe!" she whispered. "I was so afraid for you!"

As much as he enjoyed holding his lovely intended in his arms, Faramir was also blushing to be observed doing so by the woman and Hálith, who had followed him into the room and closed the door behind them. He heard the boy giggle softly, and gently sat Éowyn away from him. "Have you been harmed, loved?"

Éowyn shook her head, her smile never dimming. "I knew you would come." She pulled her eyes from her beloved to look at the boy behind him. "Hello, Hálith."

"My lady," the boy bobbed his head, embarrassed by the flush that crept up his neck every time he looked at the beautiful woman.

Éowyn looked back at Margeth. "Faramir, this is Margeth. She brought me the cleaver."

"My Lord," Margeth nodded timidly. She was not used to being around highborn people.

Faramir smiled at the woman, his easy charm putting her at ease. "I thank you for the care you have taken of my lady," He was actually relieved at her presence, for she might make his plan more palatable to Éowyn.

"I am ready to fight," said Éowyn. "Let us get out of here!"

'Uh oh,' Faramir thought, the moment of truth had arrived. "No, Éowyn," he said softly, knowing full well she was not going to like that answer.

"No?" she questioned softly, confusion clearly written on her face only to be replaced by anger as his reasoning became clear to her. "No?" she said a bit louder. She had gone from all soft and pliable to as stiff as a board in less than the blink of an eye and the Steward felt her anger wash over him in red, hot waves.

"Éowyn," he began, only to be interrupted by his lady.

"Do not Éowyn me, and do not _dare_ to tell me that war is the province of men!"

Her eyes were flashing, and Faramir found himself smiling at her spunk.

"Do you laugh at me?" Éowyn was outraged.

Faramir had the good grace to duck his head, "No, love, never."

The men would be charging the great room any moment, and Faramir needed to be available. Éowyn was shaking with anger and he could see that she was working herself up into quite a state. She might actually use that cleaver on him if he did not get control of this situation...and quickly. Taking her almost roughly by the arm, he led her to the opposite side of the room in an attempt to gain a small measure of privacy. "Éowyn, listen to me!" he said sharply.

Éowyn was so surprised by this new side of Faramir that she actually stared at him as though he were a stranger.

Faramir met her eyes, willing her to agree. "Éowyn," he whispered, "We cannot take Hálith into battle." He glanced over at the boy and she followed his eyes, as he knew she would. He prayed that she would forgive him for his trickery, but he could not risk losing another one that he loved to war! "If you do not stay here to protect him he _will_ follow me." Éowyn was wavering, he could see it! "He is but a lad, Éowyn." Faramir held his breath until he could see the agreement in her eyes. He felt guilty, for deception was not his way, but Hálith _was_ too young for battle. This was the only way he could be sure that they would both be safe.

"Should the battle go against us, I will be ill equipped to protect him in this room," she said finally.

Faramir nodded, trying desperately to hide his relief. "We have a cave and horses near by. Hálith knows the way; he can show you how to get there, and you can lead him to Harrowdale."

Éowyn hated the thought of running away and it showed on her face.

"You will have to protect him _and_ the old woman, Éowyn." Faramir pressed his advantage while he had it. "Can you do this?" Ah, the coup de grace! He watched her face turn to one of resolve.

"I will see them safely away from this place," she agreed. 'Then I will return,' she thought to herself.

The door began to open suddenly and Faramir pushed, or rather attempted to push Éowyn behind him. She was _equally_ insistent upon meeting the threat beside him. Finally, due to his longer arm reach he got her at least half way behind him. Hálith, bless his noble heart, had followed Faramir's example and stepped in front of Margeth.

It seemed an eternity before a head peeked around the door.

"Barech!" cried Margeth. "Bless Béma, you are safe!"

Faramir breathed a sigh of relief and lowered his knife. Éowyn gave him a good jab in the ribs to show her displeasure, and the Steward grunted as he attempted to greet the man. "Barech, is there a problem with the guarding of the hillmen?" Faramir knew that his plan was tenuous enough without parts of it coming unraveled.

"No, no," Barech, quickly assured him. "I knew Margeth to be in danger here, and I could not stay there and leave her alone."

Éowyn smiled triumphantly. "Now that Barech is here, he can protect Hálith and Margeth, and I will go with you."

"No!" all three males responded at once. Faramir's reply was desperate, Barceh's incredulous, and Hálith's indignant.

"I do not need to be protected!" protested Margeth, realizing what was going on. Gamely, she picked up the cleaver.

Faramir was ready to groan. These women of Rohan were going to be the death of him yet!

"I am going with Lord Faramir," said Barech firmly, his eyes never leaving those of his wife. "You, wife, will stay here!" From the look on his lovely wife's face, Barech knew he had better think of something to add...and quickly. "Margeth, Raolf is alive!"

The cleaver slipped from Margeth's fingers as shock coursed through her system. "Raolf? Where? How do you know?"

Barech regretted his abrupt pronouncement and moved over to take his wife tenderly in his arms. "There is not time now to explain, but trust me. He is weak, but he is alive. Faramir has men moving on the mines even now. There are many that are near death, and you are an excellent healer. You are needed, wife, by _our_ son and by _others_."

"Then it is decided," said Faramir. "Come Barech, we have little time!" He turned to look at Éowyn. He wanted to see her face one last time, and he filled his heart and mind with her features so that he could take them beyond the veil, should that be the outcome For once in his life Faramir lost all his inhibitions. He took Éowyn into his arms and gave her a kiss that left them both breathless. "Get them to Harrowdale, Love..."

TBC


	37. The Measure of a Man

**To The King**

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

**The Measure of a Man**

"_**The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."**_

_**Martin Luther King, Jr.**_

Éomer opened the door to the great hall of the Meduseld because there was no doorward there to open it for him as was the normal case. The doorwards had both been slain during the siege, and all able bodied men, and quite a few unable bodied ones, had been pressed into service either defending the wall, fighting the fires or in support of these two. The King himself had spent the 24 hours since his return fighting the fires that threatened to reduce the heart of Rohan to ashes.

The King paused to look back at his city before he entered the room. That his city should come to this under his rule nearly broke his heart. Théoden had entrusted Rohan to him and what had happened since he became King? One of the prime breeding stations of the Mark had been destroyed and its invaluable herds slaughtered, the Snowbourne principality had been completely co-opted by thugs and murderers, and this the capitol city...the crown jewel of Rohan was but a shadow of her former self.

True enough the beautiful Meduseld and the magnificent stables had been spared the flames, but most of the other buildings had been at least damaged. His mind already reeled with ideas of how he would house and feed the people of the city this coming winter. Éomer closed his eyes to the sight before him, feeling a complete failure. All of his worst fears had come true and he felt mocked by the tapestries telling the proud history of the Mark and her Kings.

Éomer closed the doors, turned, and was very nearly staggered by the site before him. Never before had he seen the Golden Hall filled with moaning injured and wounded men. Stunned, Éomer began to walk down the center aisle of wounded, pausing to speak to those awake or even offer a touch of comfort.

The King worked his way down the line of patients until his eyes fell upon Bergfinn sitting beside a bed. Curious, for he could see that the smithy was not injured, Éomer hurried over. "Bergfinn…" Éomer could not continue once his eyes fell upon the one with whom Bergfinn sat. It was Felor!

"No," Éomer groaned, sinking to his knees beside the bed.

Gently he took the unconscious man's hand in his own. On the floor beside the bed lay a charred crutch. "Felor, you should have been less loyal, my friend," Éomer said softly, looking up and down the broken body.

"It was Felor that discovered the hill men, sire," Bergfinn said, tears in his aged eyes. "He alerted the guards and saved the city."

Éomer had to swallow before he could speak. "What happened?"

"The smithy caught fire and he was helping me drag out equipment," said Bergfinn, guilt and grief evident in every word. "The roof gave way and the cross beam caught him across the back. We were able to get if off him but not before he was burned."

"The burns are not nearly as bad as many of the others," soothed Berga. The woman was applying cool cloths to Felor's burned back. "He will be hardly scarred at all."

"It is not the burns that are the worst of it," replied the smithy brokenly.

Éomer met the man's eyes. "Tell me."

Bergfinn kicked at the crutch. "His back is broken, sire; he will not be needing this piece of kindling again, and it is my fault."

"Stop that nonsense this instant!" snapped Berga. Men! Honestly, they could fight off the foulest foe one moment and then turn around and weep into their cups the next. Well, she had no time for this tonight. "He is alive, and that is more than many of Edoras may claim this night." The woman glared at the smithy until he gathered himself and nodded acquiescence. "Felor is going to need his friends to be strong for him."

Bergfinn nodded his understanding. "I will be."

"As will I," added Éomer. "Felor is a hero of the Mark, and he will be treated as such."

Éomer followed Berga into the corridor leading towards the kitchens. "Berga…"

"Sire?" Berga stopped and turned back to face Éomer half afraid he was going to upbraid her for her outburst towards Bergfinn.

"Felor will live?" asked the King.

Berga shook her head. "I cannot give you the answer to that, Sire; only Bema knows at this point."

"I see," Éomer sighed. "Keep me informed of his condition."

"Yes sire," Berga answered and then paused. She was trying desperately not to notice his gleaming bare chest so close to her nose. Berga had a fleeting thought of Hildegard and had to fight down an almost overpowering urge to giggle. "You are overtired; stop this foolishness!" The woman did not even realize she had spoken aloud until the King's confused question.

"I beg your pardon?" So intently had the woman been staring at his chest that the King glanced down involuntarily, almost expecting to see a strange mark of some kind.

"Oh!" started Berga. "I mean…._you_ are exhausted, Sire. There is a tub of hot water waiting for you in your rooms so that you may refresh yourself and take some rest."

"Rest?" Éomer questioned tiredly. "How may I rest when so many of my people are in need? I have failed you all."

"No, sire," Berga argued, "you have given us hope." She put her hands on his shoulder and turned him around, surprised at her boldness. "Now go!"

Éomer went without protest, and Berga continued on to the kitchen shaking her head. "And they say womenfolk are emotional," she mused.

Éomer stopped before his door and turned back towards the direction from which he had come. What in all of Arda had come over Berga? One moment she was blessing out Bergfinn, the next she was twittering and blushing like a maiden, and then she was ordering him about like Hildegard had done when he was a lad. It had been a strange exchange, but she _was_ carrying after all. Éomer had not been around many women at such a time; perhaps they were all so confusing. He shook his head, dismissing the thought. He sighed and entered his rooms. The least he could do was to wash up and don a clean shirt. As he walked, Éomer thought back to his last conversation with Felor and how the man's simple words had buoyed him. He prayed that Béma would spare this gentle soul.

O-o-O-o-O

Hamm and Liam quickly dispatched the two guards at the mouth of the cave and signaled the men to advance. The troop quickly moved through the cave seeking Gamling and Erkenbrand and gathering those able bodied enough to aid them. To a man, the men of Rohan were appalled at what they found. Conditions in the mine were unspeakable.

Gamling and Raolf had settled down to sleep after tending to Erkenbrand's wounds. The Marshall had fallen into a fitful sleep while Raolf finished applying all the salve, and the young man had then covered Erkenbrand with their cloaks to keep him warm. Though exhausted, Gamling could not sleep, but lay thinking of Berga and his life before these wretched times.

The sound of movement through the mine caught his attention, for none dared to move around at night, and the guards never entered after dark. He rolled over as quietly as possible, ready to observe who moved and if necessary protect Erkenbrand and young Raolf. Gamling silently cursed his lack of a weapon, but found a rock that he could at least grasp in his hand.

Gamling could see torchlight now, and it was coming closer. Resolutely, he grasped his rock, ready to do battle. Guards moving through the mines at night could only signify something bad. The light neared, and just as Gamling was ready to strike, he pulled back. "Dageth!" Gamling hissed, not quite believing his eyes in the dim light of the torches. "Can it be you?"

Erkenbrand and Raolf roused at the sound of Gamling's voice.

"What is it?' asked Raolf, moving to a protective stance over Erkenbrand. It was all the Marshall could do to sit up groggily.

While Dageth stayed here, Hamm led more of the men deeper into the mine to gather forces.

Dageth was thrilled to find those he sought. "Chief of Knights! Where is the Marshall?"

"I am here," Erkenbrand said weakly. "What is happening?"

"Marshall!" Dageth knelt beside his Marshall, heartsick at his condition, but determined to hide the fact from Erkenbrand. "It is good to see you."

"Dageth, is it really you?" Erkenbrand could hardly believe his eyes.

Raolf was looking from Erkenbrand to Dageth. "Who are you? Where have you come from?"

Dageth looked at the young rider. "We were sent by the King. We are here to take back Snowbourne!"

"Éomer," breathed Gamling. "The King is here?"

"No," replied Dageth, hating to dampen their hope. "In truth there are few of us, but Lord Faramir has a plan."

"Faramir?" asked Erkenbrand. "The Steward of Gondor is here…in this place?" The Marshall shook his head. "That last beating must have scrambled my brains."

Dageth smiled. "No, my Lord, I fear your brains are intact, and the Steward is indeed here. Now we must hurry, for our part is vital to his plan."

"Our part?" questioned Gamling warily. "Most of the men here can barely walk…there is no way that they can fight."

Dageth met his eyes. "I know what we ask."

"He is right," said Raolf. "I would rather die fighting than live another day in here."

"As would I," confirmed Erkenbrand. "We are men of Rohan; we do not die on our bellies." The Marshall shifted as he tried to sit up. "Help me up, Gamling."

Gamling met his friend's eyes and then smiled wolfishly. "We shall make such an end that songs shall be sung of our uprising!"

Hamm joined the small group. "Not an end, my friends, but a new beginning."

Gamling blinked. "Hammok? The farrier?"

Hamm grinned, "Aye, it is me; I came with Faramir."

"Why did the King not come?" asked Erkenbrand, still trying to understand what was happening.

Hamm glanced at Dageth before answering. "Edoras has fallen under attack, and the King was forced to return."

"Edoras?" asked Gamling, grabbing his arm. His mind immediately went to Berga. "Under attack?"

Hamm nodded. "Leave Edoras to the King; he will see our city safe."

"Come," Dageth urged, "we have little time."

"What is the plan?" asked Erkenbrand.

"We are going to rush the manor house and take it back."

"What of Gilmóod's men?" asked Gamling.

"The people of the village have gathered some weapons for us, and they will keep the hillmen occupied in their bunk house," explained Dageth.

"So that is why my father did not come tonight," breathed Raolf, equal measures of relief and fear for what his father was about to do warring with each other.

"The kitchen door at the back of the manor house has been left open for us," added Hamm. "We can gather some more knives for weapons."

Gamling eyed Erkenbrand uncertainly. "Dageth, the men here are willing, but there will be those who are simply not able to fight.

Dageth nodded. "No one will be left inside this mine. Those who cannot fight will be carried to the village and entrusted to the care of some of the women. They will have beds and nourishment this night."

"Béma willing," Raolf added. He came to his feet resolutely. "We are ready to fight for our freedom!"

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer sank down into the tub of water that had been brought to his rooms. He sighed with relief as his fatigued muscles responded to the warmth. The King lifted a mug and poured the water over his head. It seemed like forever since he had really been clean. The soap Berga left for him smelled suspiciously of something floral, but he was too tired to protest. Éomer was just finishing lathering up his hair when the door to his room burst open and the surprised King found himself face to face with three excited little girls, who did not seem to notice him attempting to scoop soap suds into the water as some kind of shield.

"King Éomer!" Márta cried, "The bad men came to the city and tired to burn us!"

"They shot arrows over the wall, and we were not allowed to even go to the stables!" added Meela.

"I was not afraid," boasted Thela.

"Why is your face red?" asked Márta.

"You smell good," added Meela, not to be outdone by her sister.

"Girls?"

Éomer heard Mistress Elena's voice only a second before the kindly woman unwittingly followed the escaped little girls into the King's room.

"Oh!" exclaimed the woman in strangled voice, as she quickly turned her back. "Oh my goodness!" Well, it wasn't every day that one came upon one's King sitting in a bathtub!

Éomer cleared his voice and attempted to retain some dignity. "Good evening, Mistress Elena; I seem to have found your missing little girls!"

"Shall I bring more apple cakes?" asked Hildegard as she walked into the room. "Oh!" the cook stammered. Her eyes went from the King to the little girls to Elena and then most appreciatively back to the King. "When I saw the doors open, I thought you were ready for your cake," she chuckled. Hildegard sat the plate down on a table and helped Elena shoo the girls back towards the door. "Come little ones," she clucked, "as fine a sight as our King makes in his tub, he'll look even better once he gets his towel around him."

If anything Éomer turned even redder. "Hildegard!"

"Now do not 'Hildegard' me, my King; I have looked after you since you were a lad!"

"Hildegard," Éomer groaned, drawing out each syllable as he shook his head affectionately. Éomer could never really be irritated with Hildegard. For years she had lavished on him all the mothering that the he and Éowyn needed, as she had done for Théodred before them.

"I am going, Sire; I am going!" Her good-natured chuckle could be heard as she closed the door behind her.

TBC


	38. What Do I Do Now?

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

**What Do I Do Now?**

"_As we know, there are known knowns. There are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns. That is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns, the ones we don't know we don't know." Donald Rumsfeld_

Liam quickly organized his men as they gathered the prisoners from the mines together. Those most ill or injured were assisted by others. Dageth wanted to have a litter made for Erkenbrand, but the Marshal adamantly refused, glaring at the man who offered him a shoulder to lean upon. "There is still enough of a man left in me to fight," growled the Marshal.

Hamm whistled softly, and the man Liam assigned to keep watch out front, answered with the agreed upon call. Satisfied it was safe to proceed, Hamm sprinted back to the gathered group. "The way is clear. Let us get out of this hole." Being confined inside the mines for even this short time had brought back too many bad memories for Hamm. Even the smell of captivity seemed the same, and he felt it clinging to him with icy tendrils, as though wanting to drag him back to that place of horrors in the past.

The farrier jumped when a hand was laid on his shoulder, interrupting his morbid thoughts.

"Come on," said Liam, "we are going."

Hamm took a quick, calming breath, and forced his mind back to the present and the danger they still faced. "Gladly."

Dageth and Raolf led the group away from the mines and towards the village, picking their way carefully along the path in the darkness. As they neared a cottage, the owner's dog began to bark. The tiny house and surrounding yard was neat and tidy. Smoke curled from the chimney and light could be seen behind a shuttered window. To the wary and anxious men the dog sounded much louder than it really was, and they all ducked into the shadows waiting for discovery. The door to the cottage opened and a young woman stood silhouetted in the doorway. Several children could be seen playing behind her.

"Stay here, children; I will be right back." She stepped out warily and closed the door behind her.

"Hillis!" breathed Raolf. The warrior could not stop the name from leaving his lips as the young woman he loved more than anything in the world stepped into view.

"Who is there?" cried Hillis, afraid that the plans had gone awry, and Gilmóod's men were now searching the houses. Dear Béma, she had a cottage full of children to protect!

Raolf quickly stepped from the shadows before one of the others became fearful of her making too much noise.

Seeing the shadow move towards her, Hillis shrunk back in fear.

"Hillis, it is Raolf." He stopped his advance so that she would not feel threatened. "Do not fear me, love."

At the sound of his voice she stopped, but it was so dark that she could not see clearly. "Raolf?" The young woman could hardly breathe, so afraid was she that this could not be true.

"I am coming forward; do not be afraid." Raolf quickly covered the ground and caught Hillis as her knees momentarily gave way. "Here, love, it is all right."

Quickly recovering her spunk, Hillis threw her arms around Raolf's neck as though afraid to let go. "I thought you were dead!"

Liam sprinted over to the pair. "Later lovebirds; I am afraid there is no time now for a reunion. Where are we supposed to meet Barech?"

Hillis nodded and looked at Liam. "By the old potter's house... I cannot lead you for I am watching over many of the children."

Liam nodded. "We will find it. Lead the way, Raolf."

Raolf kissed Hillis on the forehead. "Keep the children inside until you know it is safe."

"I will," Hillis nodded. As he started to leave she grabbed his arm and pulled him back for a real kiss. "That is to remind you what you have to live for."

Raolf held her tightly. "What do you think has kept me alive all this time?"

Dageth walked over to join the trio. "Hillis, we have many men who are ill. Are there any women still in the village that can see to them?"

"Oh Dageth! I am glad that you are well." Hillis had not seen the scout since the last time she had treated his shoulder. His question finally penetrated her thoughts. So much was happening so quickly that the young woman was fairly overwhelmed. "Yes," Hillis replied quickly. "Bring them in here and I will care for them."

"No," Raolf shook his head, countermanding her idea. "They would frighten the children as they are."

"All right," Hillis said, thinking. "Lay them here beside the house and I will send one of the older children for women to help. Let your mind be at ease for them, Raolf. We will see that they are cared for."

The weakened and ill men were quickly laid down in the soft grass beside the cabin. After spending so many months on the rocky floor of the mines, the grass seemed as soft as a down mattress to the men, and they filled their nostrils with the fresh scent as they gazed hungrily at the stars overhead.

Those men still remaining, including the ever stubborn Marshal Erkenbrand, steeled themselves for the coming fight. As Raolf led the way, they each made their peace with whatever was to come.

O-o-O-o-O

Upstairs in the Manor House, Faramir and Barech were ready to go back down to the kitchen. Barech had told the Steward of a back set of stairs from which they could access the rooms on the back part of the house without being seen from the Great Room., and the pair now prepared to leave.

Looking back at Éowyn, Faramir nodded. "You remember what I said." He looked at Hálith and added, "_both_ of you."

Barech and Margeth needed no words. After so many years of marriage, as with many couples who lived a lifetime together, their eyes and hearts said it all."

"Éowyn," Faramir stressed, almost desperate to make sure she would not put herself in danger. "At all costs, Éomer must not be allowed to ride into a trap!"

Éowyn bristled, but held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to send Faramir off to battle with angry words between them. She was no fool; she knew the odds were against them.

Faramir saw her face flush and knew he had pricked her temper just enough. With a wink, he slipped out the door with Barech.

Margeth chuckled despite her fear for Barech. "He is a charmer, that one."

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir followed Barech down the back stairway. He paused while Barech went into the kitchen to check that it was safe for him to follow. It was rare for one of Gilmóod's men to enter the kitchens – usually they just shouted their instructions – but it was not unheard of. Once he determined that the way was clear, Barech motioned Faramir to enter.

The Steward was immediately concerned when he saw that none of the other group was here. He pushed the door to the great room slightly opened so that he could peer into the room. It would help him to get an idea of the layout. Faramir would press any advantage he could see.

Barech nearly had heart failure when he saw Faramir peeking into the great room and immediately pulled him back. "Are you out of your mind...my Lord?"

"I do not think so," replied Faramir dryly.

"What if you had been seen?"

"I am quite used to being _not_ seen, my friend," replied the Steward. He scanned the room noting that the wily cooks had laid out an assortment of knives and utensils that would be suitable as weapons. He smiled his appreciation for their ingenuity to the ladies, and then signaled Barech to check the back door.

Barech went outside to look around and then came back inside. "There is no sign of anyone out there."

Faramir frowned at the news. "You had better take me to where the men were supposed to be armed by your people. If something is wrong it would be better to know it now."

"Come then," said Barech. He led the way back outside and the pair quickly disappeared into the darkness.

O-o-O-o-O

Gilmóod was sweating now, but thanks to the buzz in hishead, he did not care. The room spun slightly as he surveyed his table. Bewon was telling another of his stories that had several of the men laughing hysterically. That caused Gilmóod to frown, for _he_ enjoyed being the center of attention. His fist slammed down on the table accompanied by a shouted, "Enough!" He glared as all gathered grew quiet. That was better!

The master of the manor stood and fixed Bewon, who only an hour or so earlier had been his new favorite, with an evil smile. "How would you like to join Scaro as my newest crow-scare? I understand you have another pole in readiness.

"I thought that was for Erkenbrand!" protested one of the ruffians, too drunk or too slow to pick up on the master's sudden shift of mood. He did not get the chance to hear the answer before he found Gilmóod's knife protruding from his neck. His breath rattled as his brain registered its last thoughts before his head dropped onto the table.

The atmosphere in the room suddenly grew chill as the men at the table sobered. Even through the wine and ale induced haze they recognized danger. Like animals of prey, their senses were honed from the many years at war.

"Barech!" hollered Gilmóod, without even turning around. "Remove this refuse from my table."

Áríc hurried forward to drag the much larger man from the table. While he wrestled with trying to get the legs untangled from the bench, Gilmóod's eyes narrowed.

"Who are you?" he growled, "and where is Barech?"

Áríc paused, fighting to remain calm. He lowered the dead weight back onto the seat so that he could bow to Gilmóod. "Barech has taken ill, Lord Gilmóod, and I am Áríc, his replacement."

Gilmóod eyed the man with suspicion. He had not risen to power without being a cautious man. "I did not give Barech leave to be away from his duties." He glanced back towards the kitchens. "Is his woman here where she belongs?"

Áríc bowed his head again. "Aye, Lord Gilmóod, Margeth is seeing to the Lady Éowyn."

Gilmóod's face brightened as he suddenly remembered his beautiful captive and the plans he had for her. "Ah yes...Lady Éowyn..." He turned to Bewon. "Bewon, bring the lovely lady downstairs to join us."

Raucous laughter erupted from the men at that pronouncement. Several banged their hands on the table in approval as shouts of encouragement rang out.

"Bring her down..."

"Let us see this flower of Eorl..."

"Let us see what she can do!"

Gilmóod, his mood much improved by the enthusiasm of the men, motioned for Áríc to hurry in the removal of the dead body. It would not do, after all, to have the Lady's appetite spoiled by the grisly sight. He warmed to the idea of humbling the King's sister before his men. 'Perhaps,' he mused, 'he might even tame her.'

O-o-O-o-O

Upstairs in Éowyn's room, Hálith heard the sudden burst of laughter and had the bad feeling that it did not bode well for them. He had been listening intently at the door for the sounds of battle; ready to protect Éowyn and Margeth or lead them to safety should things go badly for Lord Faramir's attack. He heard the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs and hissed at the women. "Hide the weapon." On impulse, Hálith ran across the room and gave Éowyn the dagger Faramir had given him, while Margeth dropped the cleaver into the deep pocket of her apron.

Éowyn took the dagger from Hálith. "Quickly," she cried, "hide under the bed."

"No," argued Hálith.

"Now," the Shield Maiden commanded, and there was no arguing with her tone of voice.

Reluctantly, the boy slid under the bed not a moment too soon.

As the door to the room slammed open, Éowyn slipped the dagger up the sleeve of her dress, thankful she had worn one that had the sleeves secured at the wrists by ties. Both women spun to face the door, surprised at the forceful opening even though they had expected someone to come.

Bewon's huge body filled the doorway and the brute stood there a moment just leering at Éowyn. "You _are_ a pretty thing..." He licked his lips in anticipation.

Éowyn was not about to be intimidated. She threw back her head defiantly and stepped in front of Margeth. "How _dare_ you enter my room uninvited!"

"You are wanted downstairs, my _Lady." _He spat out the last word.

Unmoving, Éowyn glared at the man.

Bewon smiled. He had hoped for an excuse to get his hands on her. He crossed the room in three quick steps and grabbed Éowyn's arms in two bruising grips. Slowly he pulled her against his chest until his foul breath was in her face.

Instead of cowering like he expected, Éowyn brought her knee up in a quick jab to the man's groin.

The maneuver, taught to her by Éomer, had the desired results. Bewon's eyes bulged out and the breath exploded from his lungs as he released Éowyn and fell to the floor in agony.

"Margeth, come..." Éowyn turned back to take the woman's hand. She almost called for Hálith when laughter from the doorway stopped her cold. Straightening her back and composing her face, Éowyn turned back to the door and found who she expected.

Gilmóod was leaning casually against the frame, his legs crossed at the ankle. He tilted his head and clapped his hands in a mock salute. "Oh well done, Shield Maiden. I should have expected no less, but I find that I am quite...aroused...by your skills."

His oily voice made shivers of disgust roll down Éowyn's back.

Gilmóod strolled over to where Bewon lay writhing on the floor. "Get up, you miserable cur. You had better hope that I forget seeing you put your hands on her or you will not have to worry about such an injury ever again. Now get out!"

Bewon half crawled and scurried as quickly as he could to the doorway and pulled himself up there. Before leaving he looked back at Éowyn, his malevolent glare full of the promise of retribution."

Gilmóod gallantly held out his arm. "My lady, please join us."

Éowyn refused the arm. "Your manners cannot mask what you are, Gilmóod."

The handsome face hardened. "Very well... I had hoped to do this the easy way, but if you prefer I can be as coarse as you want." He grabbed her arm and started across the room, dragging Éowyn behind him.

Margeth caught sight of Hálith trying to crawl from beneath the bed to Éowyn's rescue and quickly moved to block him from Gilmóod's view with her skirt. She stood squarely in front of the bed so that the child could not get out, for she knew if he was seen that it would mean his death.

The woman's movement gained Gilmóod's attention. "Get back downstairs, crone, or I will have you beaten to death."

Hálith scrambled out from under the bed as Margeth followed Gilmóod and Éowyn from the room and closed the door behind her. The boy sat on his heels, his mind a mass of swirling emotions…anger, fear, guilt, uncertainty. "What do I do now?" he asked in the silence.

TBC


	39. Choose Ye This Day

**To the King**

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

**Choose Ye This Day**

"**_Make Divine choices. This is a matter of refusing to make a choice based upon the expectations of others. Instead, you decide to act in ways consistent with your purpose and who you really are."_**

_**Dick Sutphen**_

Margeth hurried down the back stairway to the kitchen. She was surprised and alarmed to find none of the men there. "Where is Barech?" she cried to the cooks.

Áríc entered the kitchen from the front room. Lines of worry creased his forehead, and his hands shook slightly.

"Áríc," cried Margeth, noticing his agitation with even greater alarm. "Where are the men?"

"I do not know," answered the man, shaking his head and wiping nervous sweat from his forehead. "Gilmóod's men grow restless. The additional ale seems to have only made them meaner. This fool plan seems doomed to kill us all," he groaned tiredly.

"The 'fool plan,' as you call it, will win us our freedom and restore those who have been taken from us," Margeth snapped. "Lord Faramir and Barech will be back," she vowed. "The plan will work; we _must_ not break faith."

Áríc sighed and then gave a weary nod. "I hope you are right, Margeth; I _do_ hope you are right."

"I am right," replied the woman with a bravado she did not completely feel. Determinedly she wrapped her fingers around the handle of the cleaver hidden in her apron pocket. She _had_ to think of a way to help Éowyn.

O-o-O-o-O

As Gilmóod dragged Éowyn into the great room, the men erupted with whistles, hoots, and lewd suggestions. Gilmóod relished being the center of attention, and paraded his prize with a smug look.

A drunken man sat slumped over the table, and Gilmóod kicked him so that he fell over. "Drag this refuse away," he ordered. "We must welcome _our_ guest!"

"Make room!" cried one of the men.

"Give the lady a seat by me," called another.

"More ale!" bellowed another.

Éowyn was disgusted with the lot of them, but Gilmóod most of all. She longed to spit in his face, but the knowledge that Faramir would soon be here cooled her temper. She dared not do anything that might adversely affect Faramir's plan. The trouble was that she did not know the details. Oh, she would have a thing or two to tell her dear beloved intended once they got out of this mess. Another rough tug on her arm jerked her mind from Faramir and back to her present circumstance. She glanced at the table full of drunken guards leering at her. Forcing her eyes away, she scanned the room looking for possible exits, memorizing the location of every guard while she did so.

"Behold the Shield Maiden of Rohan," called Gilmóod. "Soon she shall be the mistress of Snowbourne!"

Éowyn nearly gagged at that pronouncement.

"We are honored by the presence of one so skilled with the blade," continued Gilmóod, oblivious to Éowyn's revulsion.

"Let us see a demonstration!" suggested one of the guards, and the cry was soon picked by the others.

Gilmóod smiled as he mulled over the idea. "This might be amusing," he replied smoothly. "Who is brave enough to fight the Shield Maiden?"

O-o-O-o-O

Listening by the door, Margeth was furious and frightened. Éowyn was such a wee thing that the woman could not imagine her actually fighting with one of those brutes in there. What was she to do?

Margeth grasped the cleaver and made up her mind… She was going in there! She put her hand on the door to push it open and found herself pulled back by her apron ties.

"What are you doing? Are you out of your mind?" Áríc cried.

Margeth spun on the man. "I have to do something; I cannot leave Éowyn alone in there."

Áríc was almost frantic. He knew that if Margeth went in there Gilmóod would kill her. "Stay here," he finally said. "I will go find Barech; he will know what to do."

Margeth hesitated, but finally agreed. Weighing heavy on her heart was her husband's warning that Raolf and others would need her skills as a healer, and the presence of the boy hidden upstairs.

O-o-O-o-O

Hálith sat frozen in indecision for what seemed like ages to the boy. "What do I do?" he kept asking himself over and over, seemingly paralyzed. Finally, he gave himself a mental shake. Faramir trusted him, and he would not betray that trust! He went to the door and listened for sounds of battle. Hearing none convinced him that the attack was not yet underway.

Ever so carefully, Hálith eased the door open as he had seen Faramir do earlier. Open an inch...pause...open another inch...pause...bit by bit he worked the door to where he could peer out. Seeing the pathway clear, Hálith went out into the hallway. Part of him wanted to go right back to the store room and out the window, but that part of him was only a small voice in the back of his mind. Yes, it was important to warn Éomer if the plan went wrong, but that was not the case…yet. Faramir's plan would work…it had to!

Hálith bypassed the storage room and went down the back stairs. Entering the kitchen, he looked first for Margeth. He saw her standing by a door that he assumed entered to the Great Room. She was peeking into the room beyond. "Margeth?" he whispered. "What is happening?"

Margeth spun around at the sound of her name being whispered. "What are you doing down here," she hissed, hastily closing the door. "You cannot be seen here!"

Hálith smiled. She almost reminded him of his mother. Quickly, though, he sobered again. "I _must_ find Faramir," he said. "He will want to know about Lady Éowyn."

"He has gone to find the other men," explained Margeth. "They should have been here by now!" she worried.

Hálith put his arm around the frightened woman and hugged her to him. "Trust him, Margeth, all will be well. We will not fail you."

Margeth felt the tears she had been holding back all night burn her eyes. "You are such a dear boy. You remind me of my Raolf…" her voice broke off in a sob. "I have not seen him for so long, and I have so worried about him."

"We will find him," said Hálith. "I promise."

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir followed Barech down the dark pathway that led from the Manor House towards the dwellings of the people. The further they went, the more concerned Faramir became. His men should have been at the Manor House by now! He had no way of knowing that they had been delayed by the dreadful condition the prisoners. It seemed to the Steward that some alert should have been sounded by now if the plan had gone awry at the mines, so what could be the delay?

As the pair reached the outskirts of the clustered cottages, he could see multiple shadows moving in the darkness and hear the murmur of angry or frightened voices. As they drew nearer, Faramir could see that a motley collection of old and feeble men carrying a variety of weapons they looked ill suited to use surrounded a larger dwelling.

"That is the building where the hillmen are housed," Barech told him.

The two men approached the group and Faramir could see that the men held a variety of spears and swords. The door had been barred and several of the men were even now stacking kindling and branches around the outside of the house.

"Where did you get these weapons?" the Steward asked as they approached.

"The master demands that the wild ones leave their weapons outside at night," said the man. "We simply helped ourselves."

"That makes no sense," said Faramir, trying to understand Gilmóod's reasoning.

"The hill men are a violent lot, my Lord," replied Barech. "Too many of them were being lost to the nightly fights so Gilmóod decreed that no weapons could be taken inside."

"Ah," nodded Faramir. Ever the student, Faramir understood the clannish background of the hill people. Their lot in life was harsh, made more difficult by the fact that the clans warred against each other if there was no other enemy in sight. Violent overthrow was the normal progression to leadership among the men of the hill country. With the constant warfare, no higher bonds of civilization could be achieved. It was one of the things that Faramir hoped to see addressed now that the Dark One had been defeated. He longed to see all the peoples of Middle Earth exposed to education and skill crafts that would help their people live in prosperity.

Faramir saw one of the men approaching the dwelling with a torch and was horrified as the reason for the stacked wood became clear to him. "No!" he called, pushing forward to wrench the torch from the man. "What are you doing?"

"We are fighting back," cried the man. "They have murdered us and imprisoned our sons. We have had to hide our daughters and children."

Several heated murmurs of agreement were heard among the gathered men.

"They are asleep or drunk now, but if they attack us we may not be able to hold them back," argued the man, willing Faramir to understand his position. He turned to the men with him and many nodded their agreement. They looked angrily at Faramir.

Faramir met their ire with his own. He searched his mind for the words that he could say to reach them. These were good people at heart, but fear and deprivation takes its toll, and reason can all too easily be lost to emotion. "What you speak of is not fighting back; it is murder."

"It is what they deserve," cried one.

"They have treated us worse," argued another, as the angry men pressed in on the Steward.

Barech was frightened and confused, but he pushed forward to stand beside Faramir. "Listen to the Steward," he pleaded. "He has helped us thus far."

"We cannot fight the hillmen," hissed the self proclaimed leader of the men of Snowbourne.

"Would you become then, the very thing you hate?" asked Faramir softly. "Is that the victory you seek?"

The men held their ground but did not approach closer as they thought about his words.

"Is it?" demanded Faramir, looking from one to the other. "Here then," he said, holding out the torch to one of the men, "take it." He glared at the man, who lowered his head and backed away. "You?" Faramir asked another. "Or you?" he turned yet again. "Why do you back away? If you believe in what you are doing then you should be able to wield the torch yourself."

From behind them more men approached. It was Liam and his group. As they quickly gathered around Faramir the men of Snowbourne fell back.

"What is this?" asked Dageth.

"I see what it is," said Hamm, staring in revulsion at the kindling stacked around the outside of the dwelling. The others followed his eyes. The quiet farrier turned towards the men of Snowbourne, his voice an anguished hiss. "The Haradrim burned my father alive when they took me as a slave. I will be no part of doing that to another."

The chastened men backed away from the angry newcomer.

"It is not that we want to do this," explained one of the Snowbourne men, trying desperately to make the new fighters understand their position. "They are warriors…" His voice trailed off before the shaming words could leave his mouth.

"And you are not," finished Faramir gently. "You are blacksmiths, farriers, farmers, fathers, and husbands…not warriors. I understand your fears, but believe me what you proposed to do would haunt you for the rest of your lives."

"Faramir is right," said Barech. "We are not warriors, but we are not cowards either. We can free our homes of this vermin and keep our honor."

Liam stepped up beside Faramir and Hamm. "We are here to help you, and there are others here as well."

One by one the men from the mines stepped from the shadows to identify themselves to their fathers, uncles, neighbors. There was not time for much a reunion, however, for Áríc came running down the path.

"Why are you waiting here?" cried the frantic man. "We must hurry."

From behind him, footsteps could be heard running down the path. The men dropped into the shadows as Hálith ran into the clearing. The boy's breath was ragged from the run, and he had to stop to put his hands on his knees. "Faramir," he called as loudly as he dared.

"Hálith!" Faramir stepped from the shadows. "What is wrong? Why are you here?"

"Éowyn," the boy gasped. "Gilmóod has taken Éowyn."

TBC

A/N: Thanks for your patience!


	40. Courage Found

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty**

**Courage Found**

"_**The hero is one who kindles a great light in the world, who sets up blazing torches in the dark streets of life for men to see by." Felix Adler**_

Éomer stood on the steps of the Meduseld overlooking his city. His mind's eye, however, was turned towards Snowbourne. Even now it took all his willpower to keep from riding out this moment, for great was his concern for Éowyn. Nearby a gutted home collapsed in a shower of embers, and the hollow sound snapped the king back to the moment. He had been lured from the city with most of his guard, to the near ruination of Edoras. He dared not make that mistake again. He had to trust that Liam and his men would be able to help Faramir save her. The thought of Faramir was another worm niggling in his mind. If something happened to the Steward, he would have to answer to Aragorn _and_ his sister.

"You should rest while you can, Sire," said Bergfinn, as he walked up to stand beside Éomer. He followed the king's eyes to the ruins of his smithy, and sighed. "There is aught to be gained by looking back."

Éomer turned to look at the man beside him. "You would still offer me advice, after what my mistakes cost you?" His voice held a hard edge, laced with just the barest hint of sadness.

Bergfinn snorted softly. "Think you that you are the first man to make mistakes...the first king to do so?"

"I spent many happy days there," murmured Éomer, his eyes returning to the still smoking smithy. He thought of the numerous afternoons he'd labored under Bergfinn's tutelage, often with Felor sitting nearby, rubbing his stump thoughtfully as he chattered away.

"As did I," added Bergfinn.

Éomer closed his eyes, but he could not close off the vision of his smoldering city. Even if he could, the sounds and smells would not leave him. Bergfinn's large, work-calloused hand grasped his shoulder.

"Do not doubt yourself, sire."

The king looked suddenly at his old friend and mentor, surprise written on his features. "I am not doubtful, Bergfinn; I am furious."

Bergfinn gave his king a wolfish grin. "_That_ is the Éomer I know!"

"Too long have I doubted myself," declared Éomer. "It was my constant second-guessing which clouded my vision." Éomer sighed and looked out again at his city. "Now my people need me to be strong and sure of my decisions."

Bergfinn nodded, encouraging the King to keep talking. He knew Éomer...had many times listened to the boy work this way through a problem by talking it out to himself. Éomer was not a boy any longer. Now he was a man with great responsibilities. A chill wind from the White Mountains bore down on the Meduseld, stirring the ashes and embers into swirls around them.

Éomer shivered. "Winter is upon us, Bergfinn. Half my city is in ruins, and for what? That is what still puzzles me. What did the hill men hope to gain by attacking the city? They had to know that the éoreds, even depleted as they are, would never rest until Edoras was once again secure. They did not even sue for terms."

Bergfinn sighed. "I do not know why they did what they did, but this I do know...Rohan is strong, Sire. We have faced hardships before, and we shall do so again."

Éomer shook his head grimly. "Even with what food stuffs the Marshals have been able to secure in the mountains, it will not be enough."

The pair was silent for long minutes as they stood looking out over Edoras towards the mountains. A tug on Éomer's pant leg pulled him from his thoughts. He glanced down to see Thela looking up at him with huge, teary eyes. The wind whipped her thin sleep gown around her bare ankles. In one motion, Éomer scooped the little girl into his arms, and she buried her face in his shoulder crying. Éomer rubbed circles on her back trying to and warm her. "What is it, child? Why are you crying?"

"When I was asleep the bad men came back and tried to burn us," sniffed the normally exuberant little girl.

"No, Thela," soothed Éomer. "It was just a bad dream."

Thela hugged Éomer's neck and wiped her nose on his shoulder, causing Bergfinn to chuckle. The little girl pulled back, hiccupped a couple of times, and looked at Éomer with impossibly sad eyes. "You will not leave us again, will you?"

"No, little one, I will not leave you," he vowed. "I will keep you safe, Thela." Éomer hugged her close. "I will keep all of Rohan's children safe," he added softly to himself.

Bergfinn nodded sagely, watching Éomer.

Finally Éomer sighed heavily. "At dawn I will send a rider to Gondor to petition Aragorn for what provisions he can spare." The thought of having to ask for charity left a bitter taste in Éomer's mouth, but, Béma knew, the blood of the éoreds had washed the Pelennor when Gondor called, and now it was Rohan's turn to ask for aid.

O-o-O-o-O

Éowyn found a sword pressed into her hands, as the men jumped up from the tables and pushed them back against the walls to make room for their entertainment. The sword was longer and heavier than her own, which had been lovingly crafted to fit her size by Éomer himself.

Gard, the man who volunteered to fight the Shield Maiden, stood a good head taller than she did. His chest was broad and his arms thickly muscled. A face which might have been handsome at one time, was now scarred by long years of evil doing and the menacing sneer with which he now favored her. Éowyn had the fleeting vision of a field mouse begin snared by the mesmerizing stare of a serpent.

Gathered in a circle around them, the men hooted and cheered, egging their comrade on to begin the battle.

"Do not give her lasting injury," drawled Gilmóod, "for I have better plans than a fight for this one." The leer on his face left no one, least of all Éowyn, in doubt as to what those plans might be, causing the men to hoot even louder.

Gilmóod's comment infuriated Éowyn, but she refused to be baited or distracted. Instead, she held her temper and kept her focus on the foe in front of her. Her skirt would put her at a disadvantage, but she would just have to compensate for that. She had not backed down from the Witch King, and she would certainly not back down now. Determinedly she raised her sword to a ready position with her arms slightly bent and her shoulders relaxed as she sought to gain a feel for the unwieldy weapon. Quickly, she made a few test swings with the sword, adjusting to its weight and length. She balanced evenly on the balls of her feet and followed the tip of her adversary's blade with her eyes, judging when he would make his first swing.

For his part, Gard was enjoying his newfound attention. Half drunk and empowered by his towering size, he stalked the much smaller woman with absolute impudence.

Deciding not to wait and play a defensive role, Éowyn feinted to the right, then spun around to attack from the left and swiped at his leg. A fierce grin found its way to her face when she drew first blood. She had hoped to hit his hamstring and thus end this contest before it began, but her aim had been foiled by the unwieldiness of the weapon.

The men around the room howled with delight at the sight of blood. Some of them banged their metal mugs on the table in salute. From the corner, a young warrior named Battold watched. The seventh son of a Westfold settler, he had argued with his father and left to find his own path. Sadly, he fell under Gilmóod's spell and thought the man would lead him to do great things so that he could, in his own mind, measure up to his brothers, who all rode with Marshal Erkenbrand. At least they did before the war. Battold had no idea now how many of them still lived.

For some months now the young man had grieved his choice of following Gilmóod and hated what the man did here, but felt that he was too embroiled in the circumstances to ever get himself out. Now he missed is parents and his brothers and bitterly wished that he could know how they fared. But he also wished to spare them the disgrace of finding out what he had become. Many times he had considered riding to Edoras to throw himself on the mercy of the King, but fear of Gilmóod and his henchmen kept him at Snowbourne.

Now, as he watched Éowyn fighting, he realized that he could no longer remain where he was. Taking over a settlement, however bad, was one thing, but treason against King and country was going too far. He was raised with more honor than that, even though he had lost his way for a while. Éowyn was of the house of Eorl, and yet these drunkards were treating her as though she were a common bar wench! The long lost pride in who and what he was began to surface.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir's heart nearly stopped at Hálith's words. "Gilmóod has taken Éowyn?" His hesitation was only long enough for the words to sink in, and then he dropped the torch he had been holding and sprinted towards the house.

"We go," called Liam. The rider led the makeshift fighting force after Faramir, but because of the weakened condition of those from the mines, it was at a slower pace. Liam prayed that conditions would allow the Steward to wait on them to catch up with him before the final confrontation took place. He knew, however, that Faramir would do what he had to do should Éowyn's life be in danger.

Hamm paused to look back at the men of the village. "If this building is burned, you will answer to me." He met each man's eyes, as well as he could in the darkness. "You are armed and they are not. Just keep them in the house and away from the fight, and leave the rest to us." He turned then and ran after the others.

Barech looked at Raolf and nodded his head with resolve. "This is it, son."

"We had best go then," replied Raolf. "Can you keep up?" he teased.

"I am not yet so old that I cannot run," vowed Barech, as he started down the trail with his son and Áríc.

O-o-O-o-O

Gard glared at Éowyn as he brought his hand up covered with blood. Enraged and embarrassed, the brute charged the woman raining blow after blow onto her upraised blade.

The man's strength was staggering. It was all Éowyn could do to keep the heavy sword up and blocking the vicious strikes. The offensive continued seemingly without ceasing as Éowyn did her best to dodge the sword strokes and keep moving. The trouble was that each time she got near one of the men edging the room, he would push her back towards the center, disrupting her concentration and denying her any respite she might gain.

Éowyn was tiring from the continuous onslaught. Sweat caused her dress to cling to her and stung her eyes, but she could not spare the time to think about it. The more the dress clung, the bawdier the comments became, but she forced herself to block the sound and focus on defense.

Battold ground his teeth as he watched the disgusting show of lewdness being displayed by the men around him. He was proud of how well Éowyn was doing, but he could see that her arms were becoming rubbery with effort of warding off the unrelenting blows. When the Shield Maiden tripped and fell backwards, he made his move.

Caught up in an ale induced blood lust, Gard was ready to cut the woman in half, but as his killing stroke fell, he found it blocked by the blade of another. "Battold!" he roared. "Get out of my way!"

Battold squared himself in front of Éowyn, as she struggled to get to her feet. "No," the young warrior said calmly, knowing that he was sealing his own fate. He hoped his father would find out that his last act had, finally, been an honorable one. "I will not let you harm her." His eyes shifted to Gilmóod. "Any of you," he added.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir burst through the back door just as Battold was making his pronouncement. "Where is she?" he panted, winded from the long run and fear for Éowyn.

"In there," motioned Margeth, grabbing Faramir before he could charge into the main room. "She is well."

Margeth had been watching the fight from the kitchen door, ready to come to Éowyn's aid with her meat cleaver, if it came to that. She had just been starting into the room when Battold made his move, causing her to hesitate. Thankfully that meant she was still in the kitchen to stop Faramir from rushing into the room. "Where are the others?" she questioned, blocking the Steward's entrance.

"Let me pass!" hissed Faramir. "They are following."

"You cannot go in there alone!" Margeth eyes pleaded with him to wait.

Before Faramir could move, Liam and the other men made their way into the kitchen. Quickly, those that were not armed helped themselves to the array of knives and tools that had been set out by the cooks.

"Now," Faramir growled.

Margeth grabbed his shirt for one last comment. Pushing the door slightly open, she nodded towards Battold. "Spare the young one; he saved your lady."

Faramir met her eyes. "If it is within my power to do so, I will." Taking a deep breath, he walked boldly into the room and roared, "You will stop this at once!"

Astounded at the interruption, Gilmóod spun around. "What _fool_ seeks to give me orders in my own home?"

"The Steward of Gondor, that is who," answered Faramir, with all the strength and power that had fueled the ruling house of Húrin for hundreds of years. His eyes found Éowyn and quickly took in her battered appearance and torn dress. He fixed Gilmóod with a promising glare. "And you are the fool to have thought you could ever put your hands on Éowyn and live to tell the tale."

TBC


	41. Winning Freedom

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty-One**

**Winning Freedom**

"_**The cowards think of what they can lose, the heroes of what they can win." **_

_**--J. M. Charlier**_

_**Warning: This chapter contains a few descriptions that may be too graphic for more sensitive readers. Please take care in choosing whether or not to continue. **_

_Astounded at the interruption, Gilmóod spun around. "What fool seeks to give me orders in my own home?" _

_"The Steward of Gondor, that is who," answered Faramir, with all the strength and power that had fueled the ruling house of Húrin for hundreds of years. His eyes found Éowyn and quickly took in her battered appearance and torn dress. He fixed Gilmóod with a promising glare. "And you are the fool to have thought you could ever put your hands on Éowyn and live to tell the tale." _

A silent shock permeated the room at those words, followed quickly by dumbfounded disbelief. "The Steward of _Gondor_?" scoffed Gilmóod. Clearly not believing Faramir, his eyebrows rose as he looked over the scruffy clothes and travel worn appearance of the man before him and sniffed. "I cannot say much for the tailors of Gondor, if that is the case." His sarcasm brought a hoot of derisive laughter from the men scattered around the room. "As for putting my hands on Éowyn," he paused, glancing lasciviously in her direction, "I have only begun that delicious activity." His eyes slid back to Faramir. "Care to watch?"

With a growl, Faramir launched himself at Gilmóod. At the same time, Liam led part of the men in through the kitchen door while Hamm led the rest through the front door of the keep. It was bedlam as the ruffians, most armed only with their knives, met the charge.

"Get off of my skirt," cried Éowyn, fighting futilely to pull her skirt from under Battold's boot without causing the young man to lose his footing. Exhausted as she was, the sight of Faramir had given her new energy, and she longed to battle beside him.

Battold was too busy keeping Gard from getting to Éowyn to notice her frustration. Completely caught up in his bloodlust, the huge man lunged repeatedly at Battold with great overhand strikes that would have felled a lesser man. But Battold had worked hard at the Westfold breeding station before falling in with Gilmóod and bore the brawny arms and upper torso to prove it.

Margeth had surrendered her cleaver to Raolf after showering her son with kisses. Resolute as she was to help secure their home, the dear woman just did not think she could use a cleaver on another human being. Instead, determined to follow her Raolf and Barech into the fighting, she grabbed an iron skillet from its peg on the wall. Wielded two handedly, Margeth felt sure it would be weapon enough to allow her to help. If she was wrong, then so be it. She would die fighting along side her husband and only living son, and Béma willing, their little family would be reunited beyond the veil.

Just as she was about to enter the room, she spied Hálith crossing the kitchen. The boy had grabbed one of the swords of one of the hill men before coming back to the manor and was about to enter the fray.

"Oh no," she cried, grabbing Hálith by the back of his shirt before he could get through the doorway.

"I have to help," argued the boy, scanning desperately for Faramir or Hamm through the open kitchen door.

Margeth was just as determined to keep him from fighting. Her eye caught sight of the stack of swords in the corner nearest the great front doors of the keep, and an idea quickly formed. Gilmóod allowed none of his men to keep their swords on while inside the great hall. It was a matter of pride as well as caution that he was the only one so armed in his manor. Now it would also prove to be part of his undoing.

"Please, Margeth, I _have_ to help!" insisted Hálith.

"Then come with me!" she nodded. "We will help the most by keeping that lot from getting hold of their swords."

Hálith followed her eyes to the corner and realized her plan. "You are right," he said determinedly. "Stay close to me."

The pair skirted the walls to get to the swords, dodging the fighting men as best they could. A few of Gilmóod's men had gotten to their weapons, but most were blocked by the ongoing fighting. Margeth hoped to keep any more of the swords from falling into the wrong hands. When she started gathering up the weapons, Hálith quickly began helping. Once he had an arm full, he grasped them in one arm and gripped the hill man's sword with his other hand. At least he could be some protection for Margeth, if not for the Steward or Hamm.

Faramir had his hands around Gilmóod's throat, but his innate sense of honor stopped him from finishing the job in this way. Completely ignoring the melee around him, Faramir stood back and unsheathed his sword. A gift from Aragorn, it was a beauty fashioned much like the King's own Andúril. "Let us see how well you defend yourself against one who is not old, weak, or beaten half to death...one who is armed."

Gilmóod jumped to his feet with catlike swiftness. Rubbing his neck, he offered a mock bow, his eyes taking in the long, slender sword held in Faramir's hand. A deadly smile touched his face, yet never reached his eyes. "You are a fool to face me with such a puny weapon, and I will make you pay for that mistake."

Faramir met his gaze unflinchingly. He had sparred too many times with Boromir to fear this lout. "You will never trouble Éowyn, or anyone else, again."

With surprising speed, Gilmóod lunged towards the Steward, his deadly blade striking towards Faramir's neck.

O-o-O-o-O

With most of the fires of the city out, the stars were once again standing out starkly against the deep black sky. Bergfinn sighed deeply as a cold wind blew a strand of hair across his face, and he shook his head to dislodge it and clear his vision. "I should get back to Felor, my King. It would not do for him to awaken alone."

Éomer watched the man leave and then turned to motion for a guard. "Have the prisoner brought to the Meduseld armory." As soon as the guard left to do his bidding, Éomer looked out once more at his battered city and shook his head slowly. With a last glance, he turned on his heel and walked back into the Meduseld. Inside the door he glanced around the room until he saw the one he was seeking.

With the beds of the wounded lining the center walkways, the tables were pushed back to the outside of the room. Several warriors were there eating by the light of the flickering torches. Wendil was sitting across from Ardon, the guard from Gondor who'd stood shoulder to shoulder with him throughout the days of the siege. The men were just finishing their meal.

Catching his King's nod, Wendil excused himself. "Keep the ale flowing, my friend. I will return."

Wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve, Wendil shoved himself back from the table and hurried to catch up to his King's long strides. "Sire?"

Éomer led the man into the armory, where he was now tending to the business of putting his city back together. The map table had been moved in here, as had the throne, though Éomer favored the informality of perching on the edge of the table for most talks. "Forgive the interruption of your meal, Wendil."

Wendil was slightly taken back by, and appreciative of, Éomer's words. "That is quite all right, Sire. Er... I was finished," he stammered. Recovering quickly, he added, "How may I serve you, my King?"

Éomer motioned to one of the stools beside the table and indicated that Wendil should sit. "I note you were eating with one of Lord Faramir's guards. Were any of the men from Gondor killed in the attack?"

"No, my Lord," Wendil hastened to assure Éomer, "they were not." Wendil realized that the King would want to know all the details. "Two were wounded, but are recovering."

Unconsciously rubbing his right knee, Éomer nodded thoughtfully. "That is good." The King looked up and caught Wendil watching him and quickly moved his hand away from his knee, chagrined to have been caught in what he felt was a weakness. He cleared his throat. "What is the final tally of damages?"

Wendil ran the list through his mind before beginning his report. "Seven homes, the smithy, the tanner, the wainwright and the stone mason shops were all lost to the fires."

"All the shops but the smithy were the closest to the walls," commented Éomer as he took in the news.

"Yes, sire," confirmed Wendil. "The granary was badly damaged, but we had taken the precaution of moving the grain further up the hill before the fires spread."

Éomer frowned. "Make that permanent." He reached up to scratch behind his ear. "We dare not risk our grain stores..." Éomer caught himself before he added, 'especially now.' The last thing Edoras needed with winter approaching was a panicked populace. His people had been through enough. Éomer eyed Wendil. "Continue."

"The small smithy that Hammok, the farrier, established adjacent to the King's stables is what we are utilizing until a blacksmith shop can be rebuilt. Four of those who lost their homes are making plans to move in with extended family outside of Edoras."

"See that they have help with the move," Éomer interrupted. "But make it clear that I will have their homes here rebuilt and will want them to return in the spring."

Wendil smiled and nodded. "Yes, sire."

"Once I know the city is under no further threat, I will have the families escorted to their new homes. Until that time, they will have to remain in Edoras." Éomer stood up and began to pace as he thought. He stopped to look back at Wendil. "Has housing been found for all the displaced families?"

Before Wendil could answer, two guards appeared at the door holding a resisting hill man between them. He hesitated as the king motioned for the defiant prisoner to be put in a chair placed in the middle of the room. An uncontrollable shudder ran through Wendil as he experienced a quick vision of himself killing the old and the children in the Meduseld, and fury raced through his veins. Before he even realized what he was doing, his dagger was drawn and he was lunging at the captured hill man.

Éomer threw himself in front of Wendil before he could reach the prisoner. The dagger dug through Éomer's arm as he caught hold of Wendil, prompting one of the guards to rush forward to help the King.

"Get hold of yourself, man," growled Éomer as he held the struggling man.

"I almost had to kill babies because of this scum," cried Wendil with glazed eyes, as he fought to get his temper under control. "Babies and wee ones… We could n' let them be taken by his kind. You _know_ what would have been done to them, Sire."

Éomer closed his eyes for a moment. "I know," he replied softly. He had seen it more than once. "But this man is a prisoner, and we do _not_ abuse prisoners." Very purposefully he stood back from Wendil. The guard stayed alert, ready to react if Wendil lost his composure again.

Wendil suddenly felt old and very tired. Slowly and deliberately he slid his dagger back into its leather sheath and straightened his shoulders. It was only then that he caught sight of the blood running down Éomer's arm, and he gasped in horror. Tears burned behind his eyes and he slumped in shame. "Forgive me, Sire."

Éomer read the man's eyes for several moments. "You led the defenses that saved the city and our people. I am proud of your service."

Wendil ducked his head, blinking furiously.

Éomer gave Wendil's shoulder a squeeze of support. "Go back to your meal, my friend. I will hear the rest of your report tomorrow, after you have rested."

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir and Gilmóod circled each other. Both were panting from the exertion of the fight. Around them a battle ensued, but neither paid the least bit of attention to it, so focused were they on each other.

Gilmóod fought with raw rage. His thick sword was made for slashing from upon horseback, and he brandished it with savage ferocity. The veins of his neck stood out clearly against the taut muscles beneath as he pushed his advantage.

In a different circumstance, Faramir might have been impressed with the strength of his adversary. Long used to sparring sessions with his bull of a brother had taught the more slender Faramir how to use finesse to counter a foe's brute strength. His sword was crafted in Imladris especially for him as a surprise for his last birthday. Like its wielder, the slender build disguised its true strength.

Raolf and Barech fought together against one immense red headed man. With Barech's age and Raolf's weakened state it took both of them to handle the man, even armed as they were. The red head was using a chair to keep the pair at bay, swinging it back and forth at them while taunting them for their feeble efforts. A leg of the chair caught Barech on the chin and knocked him to the floor, sending his weapon clattering away. The man laughed as Raolf stepped protectively over his father, hefting his weapon with renewed determination. As the chair was lifted for another strike, Raolf moved in. With all his might, he kicked the massive midsection of the man before him. When the man doubled over, gasping for breath, Raolf had his cleaver at the man's throat. "Let go of the chair or I will take off your head."

Across the room, Éowyn finally managed to tear her skirt and escape after several minutes of dodging the duel taking place above her. She rolled over to her knees feeling frantically for her sword. It had been knocked from her hand and kicked out of the way while she struggled to free herself. Éowyn grunted as she had to throw herself out of the way of Battold, who was staggering backwards against a particularly vicious blow from Gard. The young man was bleeding freely from several wounds and appeared seriously weakened. Luckily, from where she threw herself, she was able to see the edge of the sword she'd been given for the fight and grabbed it.

When Battold tripped and fell onto his back, Gard moved in for the kill. As he lifted his hands for the killing stroke, Éowyn used her remaining strength to throw her sword at Gard. The weapon caught him under the arm and the blade sank through skin, sinew, and bone. With a sucking wheeze of disbelief, Gard's eyes rolled back in his head and he sank to his knees. Almost in slow motion, he toppled over, dead before his head crashed into the floor.

Éowyn crouched beside the fallen Battold. "Are you all right?" His eyes batted open and he nodded his head slowly. She smiled at him. "Thank you…you saved my life." She raised her head to scan the room quickly. More and more of Gilmóod's men were being overcome by the motley groups of rescuers. Several were backed up against a wall with their hands in the air.

The most notable exception was the ongoing fight between Faramir and Gilmóod taking place in the middle of the room. Hamm was standing to the side watching nervously with Hálith at his side. She noted that the boy clung to a foreign looking sword. But then her eyes fastened onto Faramir. She started to rise, only to find herself impeded by Battold. The young warrior had an iron-like grip around her wrist. "What are you doing?" she exclaimed. "Let me go!"

"No, my lady," he choked, coughing as a small amount of blood trickled from the side of his mouth even as he refused to release her wrist. His eyes moved to Faramir. "He would have you safe."

A tremendous clash of swords pulled her attention back to Faramir as his sword slid through Gilmóod's defenses and buried itself to the hilt in the man's stomach. As Gilmóod sank to the floor, a tremendous cheer broke from the throats of the victors. Snowbourne, at last, was free.

TBC

A/N: Forgive my long delay in updating. Because of my hectic schedule, the next update may not be until the third week in September.


	42. The Day is Won

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty-Two**

**The Day is Won**

"_**It is impossible to win the race unless you venture to run, impossible to win the victory unless you dare to battle." **_

_**Richard M. DeVos **_

"Let me through!" demanded the diminutive housekeeper, facing down a guard easily twice her size. Hands on hips, Hildegard glared as the man glanced over to his king, seeking approval. "You just as well move, son, because I am coming through with permission or without!"

Éomer frowned and nodded to the guard, who quickly and gratefully moved to allow the feisty cook access to the King.

"Do you not have wounded to attend, Hildegard? I am questioning a prisoner."

"You are also bleeding," stated Hildegard flatly. "The prisoner will still be here after I have cleaned and wrapped the wound." She sent an appraising look towards the Hill-man. "He could use some washing up, too."

"It is only a scratch," protested the king. "Leave it."

"And have it become infected?" she asked, clearly not impressed by the King's imperial manner. She had wiped his royal nose more than once in his lifetime. The woman cocked her head to the side as she waited. "Well?"

With an exasperated sigh, Éomer held his arm out for her inspection. As he did so, he caught the flicker of amusement that flashed through the prisoner's eyes and scowled. "You have something to say?" he challenged.

The prisoner shrugged. "I, too, have a mother."

Hildegard snorted but thankfully remained quiet as she set about cleaning off Éomer's arm in preparation for wrapping it. The wound was deep, but clean. While she worked, she kept sending irritated glances towards the Dunlending. After a moment, Hildegard stepped back to admire her work, as well as the well-muscled arm of the king. Then she surprised them all by stepping over to the prisoner and raising her hand.

The Hill-man drew back, as though awaiting the blow to come. Instead, the woman began to gently swab a cut above his eye.

"We are your blood enemies; why do you do this?"

Hildegard continued her cleaning as she considered his question. "I have seen too many mothers' sons buried these last few days." She stopped swabbing and met his eyes. "I do this for your mother."

The prisoner was clearly confused. Prisoners of the Dunland were viciously treated, if even allowed to live.

Éomer, too, was thinking of Hildegard's words. 'Why had these people died?' He frowned again. Éomer did not like puzzles. "If you have finished your coddling of us, woman, I have a prisoner to interrogate."

With a huff that was mostly for show, Hildegard gathered her things and left the room. As she did so, Éomer crossed over to sit on the throne. It was something he rarely did, but this night, with the light of the torches reflected in his hair, he looked as fierce a foe as any man could ever want. "Why?"

"The White Wizard promised us land," began the prisoner.

Éomer stood up abruptly. "The Westfold was not his to give," he flared, staring at the prisoner until the man averted his eyes. Éomer forced himself to take two or three calming breaths and sat back down. "Continue."

"After the land," he hesitated, glancing nervously at Éomer, "the Westfold, was taken away from us, we retreated back to the hills. Now we have to share them with orcs and other foul things that escaped the great destruction. We are better than orcs."

After some of the atrocities he'd seen in his lifetime, Éomer thought that might be debatable, but he kept that thought to himself. He still needed to know what had caused this latest incursion. It was no coincidence that the attack had come when it did. It would have taken time for a force this size to move into place, not to mention remain hidden from his scouts. "Saruman and his ilk are gone. Who told you when my city would be vulnerable?"

The prisoner met his gaze unflinchingly. "One of your own," he spat, "a strawhead, like yourself."

The air seemed to leave Éomer's lungs and he felt as though he'd been kicked in the gut. "Impossible," he declared, but even as the said the word, his mind knew the truth. The planning had been far more complex than the Hill-men had ever before used. The massacre of the Mearas had only been a ruse to draw him away.

Emboldened, the prisoner continued. As soon as he had been taken alive, he considered his life over, for his people did not hold prisoners. "You and your éored were to be slaughtered at Snowbourne. This city was to be ours."

A guard appeared at the door, drawing Éomer's attention. "My Lord, Marshal Fingol returns."

O-o-O-o-O

_A tremendous clash of swords pulled her attention back to Faramir as his sword slid through Gilmóod's defenses and buried itself to the hilt in the man's stomach. As Gilmóod sank to the floor, a tremendous cheer broke from the throats of the victors. Snowbourne, at last, was free._

With the cheers filling the air, Faramir pulled his sword free of Gilmóod's body and stood looking down at it. He had dared to hope that he would never again wield his sword in battle. He shifted his eyes to the bloody blade as his mind swirled back in time...to the ramparts of Osgiliath, where he heard Sam speaking to Frodo.

"_...It's only a passing thing this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you...that meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folks in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going because they were holding on to something. _

"_What are they holding on to, Sam?" Frodo had asked._

"_There is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for..." _

"Faramir!"

Her voice cut through the din of celebration like the clear, ringing of a bell on a sun-washed spring morning, and Faramir's eyes found hers. He dropped his sword and opened his arms as Éowyn ran to him. Faramir buried his face in her hair, drinking in her scent and giving thanks to Eru that she was safe. He felt hands clapping him on the back, but it was all a haze compared to the reality in his arms.

"I love you, Éowyn," he breathed into her ear. "You are my world." 'And you are worth fighting for,' his mind added as he captured her lips with his own, oblivious to the renewed cheering around him.

Hálith joined in the revelry with the others until he spied Hamm. A huge smile lit his face, and he ran across the room to greet the farrier. "Hamm!"

Hamm pulled his eyes from Faramir and laughed as the boy launched himself enthusiastically into his arms.

"You are alive!" Hálith exclaimed.

"Aye," laughed Hamm, "as are you, young one."

"We did it!" beamed the boy. "We really did!"

Hamm hugged the boy to him. "You did well, Hálith. I saw you protecting the old woman."

Hálith followed Hamm's eyes across the room to where Margeth knelt beside Raolf and Barech. He smiled fondly. "She is a very brave woman."

"And you are a fine son of Rohan," said Hamm softly. Sadness touched his eyes as he thought about the battles this child had seen in his short years, but he pushed it away, for now was the time of victory. "Now that you are warrior, you will not want to return to my smithy."

Hálith looked up at the man with large eyes. "But I will, Hamm! I learned so much from you, and I really do want to continue."

Hamm arched an eyebrow in surprise. "You no longer wish to ride with the éoreds?"

"It is not only the éoreds that serve Rohan," he replied quietly. "A wise man taught me that," he added with a smile.

Hamm laughed and hugged the boy again. "You will make a fine farrier, Hálith, one fit to care for the King's Mearas."

Liam was busy leading his men to round up the remaining prisoners. The men's defense and defiance had crumbled like so much crumb cake once their leader had been slain, and they now sat in small groups of sullen silence as Liam's men moved about securing their hands behind their backs. It was necessary, as they were still piteously undermanned. That done, Liam dispatched his men to the barracks where the town folk still held the Hill-men. The farmers were old, frightened, and tremendously angry about what had been done to them and their settlement. The threat that they might burn down the barracks was still uppermost in Liam's mind. Having seen the mines and what was done to their sons, he could not truly say that he blamed them, but with victory secured here, he did not want that act – totally unnecessary now – to haunt them, as he knew it would.

Dageth made his way over to where Raolf stood protectively over his parents. Barech was just awakening from where he had been hit by a chair in the battle, and Margeth was cradling his head in her lap. Tears streaked her cheeks, and the woman could not seem to make up her mind where she wanted to look most, at her husband or her son.

The scout knelt beside Barech and smiled fondly as the old man blinked his eyes trying to focus. "Rest easy, my friend, for you have earned it."

Margeth looked up and frowned, "You are bleeding! Your wound has reopened."

Erkenbrand's scout glanced down at his shoulder and was not surprised to see blood staining the bandages, for it hurt fiercely. "I have already learned that your hands are more than capable of tending it," he smiled. Dageth looked at the younger man. "Your parents are brave, Raolf. Without their help this victory could not have been achieved. I am happy that you are restored to them."

Raolf's eyes shone with pride. "My father and mother taught me well."

Movement caught Dageth's eye. "I see my Marshal, and I must attend him. I will leave you to your reunion."

"Just remember that I intend to redress your wound, young one," said Margeth.

Dageth chuckled and bowed to the family before leaving.

Erkenbrand, his weight being all but supported by Gamling, was on the verge of collapse. The Marshal had refused to stay out of the fight as Gamling had urged, and it cost him what was left of his energy reserves.

Dageth reached the pair just as Erkenbrand's knees buckled. "My Lord!" He helped Gamling, weakened himself from repeated beatings, to ease the Marshal onto a bench. "Rest easy, Marshal, for the day is won."

Erkenbrand's eyes were closed, but he nodded his head weakly. "We have seen the brigands off then..."

"They will hurt no one else, Marshal."

Gamling groaned slightly and sank onto the bench beside Erkenbrand. It was then that Dageth noticed fresh blood stains on his ripped and torn tunic.

"Lord Gamling!" exclaimed Dageth. "You are wounded!"

"It is nothing," protested Gamling, but the pallor of his cheeks spoke differently.

"Oh shut up and let him tend to you," growled Erkenbrand weakly. "Béma knows you have fussed over me enough."

"You needed fussing over, stubborn one," replied Gamling tiredly.

Their banter brought a smile to Dageth's face. If they felt well enough to spar, then he was sure they would both be fine in time.

Hálith picked up Faramir's fallen sword. He was awed to be holding something actually made by elves and held by not only the Steward, but the King of Gondor himself. Hastily, as though he was almost feared it might retain some Elven magic, he tore off his sleeve, wiped the blade clean of Gilmóod's foul blood, and then handed it reverently back to Faramir. "My Lord..."

"Thank you, Hálith," replied Faramir, taking his offered weapon. "You have done Rohan proud. You would make a fine Ranger."

Hálith beamed at the unexpected praise. "I am going to be a farrier, like Hamm," he said proudly.

"A worthy trade for a good pupil," smiled Faramir. "Éomer could have no better men caring for the symbol of Rohan than the two of you."

Faramir heard Éowyn gasp softly beside him and turned to see what had caught her attention. Taking his sword, he called to Liam. "That one," he indicated, pointing the sword at a large young man. "Bring him to me."

Liam pulled Battold to his feet, for his hands were bound behind his back, and led him over to stand before Faramir. The guard kept hold of Battold's arm to deter him from making any move – bound or not – against the Steward.

Faramir surprised Liam by stepping behind the prisoner and cutting his bonds. As Battold rubbed his wrists and faced him, Faramir spoke. "I cannot speak for King Éomer, for you are his subject, but for the service you have done for my lady, I will petition the king to have you pardoned for your crimes. It is my hope that you will return to your family and henceforth comport yourself as a true son of Rohan."

"I...I...will," stammered Battold. He could scarcely believe what he had heard. "I do not know how to thank you."

"You could begin by bowing," replied Liam dryly, "for it is the Steward of Gondor that you address."

Battold blanched and took a knee before the Steward. "Forgive me, my Lord."

"Rise, for the debt is mine," smiled Faramir. "You saved Éowyn's life."

Battold's eyes flew to Éowyn, and the warrior blushed, clearly smitten by the brave offspring of Eorl.

Éowyn smiled at the young warrior to put him at ease, which only caused him to blush further.

"Am I destined to have every man fall prey to my lady's beauty?" chuckled Faramir to Liam.

"It is a small enough price to pay, is it not, my lord?" replied Liam.

Faramir laughed outright then. "I suppose it is."

Battold bowed again. "Thank you, my Lord."

"Where is your home?" asked Faramir.

"The Westfold," said Battold wistfully.

Faramir nodded and then pointed his sword at Erkenbrand. "There is your Marshal. Perhaps you should seek his pardon as well."

Battold's eyes widened when we saw the condition of Erkenbrand. Sick with shame, the young man hurried over to where the Marshal sat on the bench beside Gamling, and sank to his knees before them.

Faramir nodded approvingly, and then turned his attention back to Liam. "What of the others?"

"I have sent my men back to the barracks to aid the villagers," reported Liam. "It is my recommendation that they be sent from here at first light."

"Without their weapons, of course," Faramir clarified.

"Of course," smiled Liam. Then the warrior sobered. "I would like to see them punished for their part in this, but is not feasible at this point. Our forces are too small to deal with the added numbers."

"I agree," nodded Faramir. "Most of the men from the mines are near collapse. It will take many weeks of rest and sustenance for them to recover."

Liam nodded. "Snowbourne will need a new Marshal."

"I can think of someone who might just fit that bill," smiled Faramir, looking towards Dageth. "Subject to the King's approval, of course."

Liam followed Faramir's eyes. "A wise choice," he concurred. "Perhaps that young one," he nodded towards Battold, "could take Dageth's place as a scout for Erkenbrand."

Faramir laughed. "A wise choice," he said, echoing Liam.

Éowyn sagged slightly against Faramir and the Steward immediately swept her into his arms. "Liam, I want a guard posted outsides Lady Éowyn's room."

"I will see to it," replied Liam.

"What are you doing?" protested Éowyn. "Put me down!"

"No," replied Faramir, with a twinkle in his eye. He knew how much she would protest this action. "You have barely slept or eaten for days. I am taking you to bed."

Éowyn's eyes widened at that last remark, causing Faramir to blush, and Liam to chuckle.

"I mean," he corrected, "I am taking you up to your bed so that you can sleep. I will return here."

"I am perfectly capable of taking myself upstairs, should I choose," replied Éowyn testily, but the warmth of her smile told another story. She understood Faramir's need to love and protect his family. 'After all,' she reasoned, 'she had the rest of their lives together to show him that his wife was no shrinking violet, but a Shield Maiden of Rohan.'

TBC

The quote is from Return of the King, the movie.


	43. The Quality of Mercy

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty-Three**

**The Quality of Mercy**

"_**The quality of mercy is not strained; it droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven**_

_**Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes."  
William Shakespeare**_

_**The Merchant of Venice**_

_A guard appeared at the door, drawing Éomer's attention. "My Lord, Marshal Fingol returns."_

Éomer acknowledged the sentry. Turning to the guards at the door, he motioned them forward. "Take the prisoner outside the city wall and release him."

The Hill-man gasped and turned bewildered eyes to the king. "You...you are releasing me?"

Éomer rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week, but there was still far too much to do. He was so very tired of war. "I want you to take a message to your people," he said finally. "Tell them that we must find a way to live together, or we will surely all die together."

The Hill-man stood up from the three-legged stool where he had been sitting for the interrogation. His eyes never left those of Éomer. "This is not a trick; you are releasing me?"

"Cut his bindings," ordered the king.

The guard drew his dagger and swiftly sliced through the ropes that looped around his elbows and wrists. The ropes cut, the guard re-sheathed his dagger and stepped back to the door, leaving the Hill-man standing alone with Éomer, but still within reach should the prisoner make any hostile move towards the King.

Throughout the entire procedure, the eyes of the King and the Hill-man had never left each other.

Slowly, and with great dignity, the Dunlending straightened his shoulders. "I am called Hagard. If ever you are in need of aid, you have but to call upon that name. My people will know how to find me."

Éomer's eyes narrowed, but he could detect no deceit in Hagard's countenance. "I am Éomer, son of Éomund." He hesitated, for many years of war and hatred lay between their peoples. But above all things, Éomer was a man of honor, and an act of good faith called for reciprocation. Perhaps a step taken now could be the first in the journey to peace between the old rivals. Deliberately, Éomer bowed his head slightly to the Hill-man. "If you are ever again in the Mark, you have only to call upon my name to receive help."

Still astonished at the turn of events, Hagard bowed formally before the king. "I will not forget this act of kindness, Éomer, son of Éomund."

Éomer's eyes slid to the guard, and the man moved forward and motioned the ex-prisoner to follow.

As the pair walked through the Meduseld, Wendil rose from his seat in disbelief. "It cannot be..." he gasped.

Confused, Ardon looked from Bergfinn, who had joined the pair at their table, to Wendil. "What cannot be?"

Outraged, Wendil indicated the Hill-man being escorted through the hall. "He parades through our wounded with not so much as a binding on him!" The man violently shoved the table back and started for the prisoner. If the racket of the table had not caught the attention of all in the room, the red-faced Wendil charging towards the prisoner certainly did.

"Stand down, Wendil!"

The voice of the King cut through the silence like the crack of a whip, and there was no denying the ring of authority it held. Éomer had walked to the door of the armory to watch the Hill-man. In truth, he half wondered whether or not he had lost his mind, and he also wanted to gauge the reaction of those in the Meduseld. Wendil's reaction was not unlike his own would have been only yesterday.

Wendil staggered to a stop, his breathing heavy and his fists balled. From around the room, those wounded able were watching the exchange, some even going so far as to sit up on their beds. The only sounds that could be heard were the crackling of the fire in the central fire-pit and the footsteps of the guard and the Hill-man.

Ardon was as surprised as everyone else to see the Hill-man being escorted out. His hands were unbound, so it was obvious he was no longer a prisoner. How this was possible, Ardon had no clue. He had assumed the man would be executed for his part in the attacks.

Wendil spun angrily towards Éomer. "My lord, why?"

Sensing disaster in the making for his friend, Ardon quickly walked over to the man's side and placed a calming hand on his shoulder. "Peace, brother... Now is not the time _or_ the place for this discussion."

But Wendil was not to be deterred. The Duty Officer had been badly shaken by the siege and how close they had come to falling. It had been so close, in fact, that Wendil and Ardon had made preparations for taking the lives of the wounded and children in the Meduseld to spare them the horrors that were routinely visited upon those who fell under the power of the Hill-men. Only the fortuitous return of the King had spared them that final, desperate act.

Éomer knew that his pardoning of the Hill-man would be a decision that did not sit well with many. These people, his people, had suffered greatly during the siege, and the King felt keenly responsible because he had allowed himself to be lured away, but his gut was telling him that this was not the time, nor the avenue, for retribution. As calmly as he could, Éomer walked towards Wendil.

The Hill-men had been easily seduced with promises of a quick victory. They were not innocent in this, but they were also not the ones responsible. Éomer knew now that the puppet-master was in Snowbourne. As they had a hundred times before, his thoughts turned to Éowyn, Faramir, Liam and the others, before being pulled back to Edoras by the infuriated man standing before him.

"How could you let this scum walk out of here?" Wendil was bitter, and to his way of thinking, he had every right to be. Boldly, he met Éomer's gaze.

Éomer could feel the waves of anger and resentment washing over him. Far from blaming Wendil, he understood perfectly what the man was going through, but Wendil had the luxury of rash action, Éomer did not. Éomer had to look further than the here and now; he had to look to the future, for all of Rohan rested on his young shoulders. Those shoulders almost sagged for a moment...almost.

Éomer held up his hand to signal the Doorward to hold the guard and the Hill-man. The Doorward nodded and immediately lowered his spear to block any exit.

Hagard felt a flash of fear and betrayal. Had the angry man changed the King's mind? He searched the face of the guard accompanying him and of the one now holding them up, but both were inscrutable. His eyes sought those of the leader of Rohan. Was he a fool to believe in this strawhead?

Forcing his attention from the door, Éomer turned warm brown eyes towards Wendil and said simply, as his uncle had said to him so many years before, "Walk with me."

Half expecting to find himself clapped in irons for his disrespect, Wendil was taken aback by the King's softly spoken words, and frowned in confusion. Then he dropped his head guiltily. He had, after all, already been guilty this night of stabbing the King, albeit accidentally. He must be crazy to have called him out so publicly. Embarrassed at his outburst, he followed the king without further words.

At the pointed glance from their King, the others in the hall resumed their activities. None had any wish to tempt their sovereign's good will.

Walking back through the armory, Éomer led Wendil out through the exit and down the side of the great Golden Hall to the very back of the edifice. There, with no lingering light from the wildly blowing torches gracing the front of the building, the stars served as the only illumination of the valley floor. In the distance, the snowy peaks reflecting the silvery moonlight bore testament to the coming winter. Here, it seemed as though the two men were one with the land they loved so much. A cold wind made Wendil shiver as he stood mesmerized by the raw beauty of Rohan on display before him.

Éomer faced the man. "Here and now, I am only Éomer. If you wish to hit me, I will not attempt to stop you."

Wendil's eyes widened. "Sire, you cannot think that I would strike you!"

"Against overwhelming odds, you held my city safe, Wendil. You have earned the right."

The guard was shaking his head in disbelief. "I did only what I had to do, my Lord. I hold naught against you for not being here. Indeed, Sire, you could have jailed me for putting my knife through your arm, accident or no."

Éomer stepped closer to the man, his entire demeanor changing as he forced Wendil to meet his fierce gaze. "You do not understand my decision to release the prisoner, and I do not ask for your understanding. I have my reasons, and that is all you need to know."

Wendil swallowed nervously and hung his head. "Forgive me, Sire. I have shamed myself and my family."

As though just now aware of the frosty wind, Éomer relaxed his shoulders and allowed his eyes to be pulled to the misty mountain tops. "The coming winter is going to be a difficult one for our people."

Confused by the abrupt change of subject, Wendil followed Éomer's eyes up. "It...it seems so, Sire.

"The weather will be enemy enough without seeking more."

Realizing guiltily that the King had just favored him with an explanation, Wendil was astounded. The man felt honored and now even more ashamed for his previous outburst.

After a moment, Éomer sighed and clasped Wendil on the shoulder. "We will speak no more of this."

Without another word, Éomer turned and walked back into the Meduseld, leaving an amazed Wendil to contemplate the glimpse of nobility he had just been privileged to see.

Éomer made his way through the great hall, aware that every eye was on him. Since Wendil had not followed him in, as yet, they were probably all wondering whether or not he had just pitched the old man off the back wall. It was almost enough to make him smile.

As Éomer reached the door, the Doorward bowed. "Sire?"

"Escort Hagard safely outside the city. See that he has a horse and provisions enough to see him safely home."

The Doorward bowed again. As the Hill-man was being led away, Marshal Fingol rode up on his horse. The Marshal remained mounted as the prisoner was led away a free man. When he looked up and saw Éomer standing at the top of the steps, Fingol swung his leg over the pommel and dismounted. Immediately one of his lieutenants stepped up to take the reins.

Fingol did not have to give any instructions to his man. He knew that the mount would be well cared for. His attention was on the King. He took the steps two at a time and met Éomer with a warrior's handclasp of greeting. He raised an eyebrow in inquiry. "Was that the Dunlending you held prisoner?"

Éomer was growing weary of having this conversation. "He is," growled the King.

"Very wise," purred Fingol, much to Éomer's surprise. "That Hill-man is the head of one of the most powerful and influential clans. They are most anxious to see him return."

Éomer watched Hagard as he was being escorted down the hill towards the gate, and a slow, satisfied smile graced his face.

O-o-O-o-O

_Faramir nodded and then pointed his sword at Erkenbrand. "There is your Marshal. Perhaps you should seek his pardon as well."_

_Battold's eyes widened when we saw the condition of Erkenbrand. Sick with shame, the young man hurried over to where the Marshal sat on the bench beside Gamling, and sank to his knees before them._

"My Lord," Battold's head hung so low that his hair obscured his features.

Erkenbrand and Gamling looked at each other and then back at the young man kneeling before them. Exhausted beyond belief, talking was almost more effort than either of them could manage.

"Do you know this young man, Gamling?" inquired Erkenbrand.

Gamling pursed his lips and frowned. "No, I cannot say that I do. Do you?"

Erkenbrand sighed as he contemplated Battold. "There is something familiar about him, but I admit that I cannot go further than that."

"In any event, I think he is talking to you," opined Gamling, suppressing a yawn.

Erkenbrand's attempt to speak was cut off as a deep, rumbling cough shook his frame, causing him to grimace as his broken ribs were rattled. After a few wheezing breaths, the Marshal tried again. "Speak, young one."

"My Lord," Battold began, glancing shyly up, only to lose his courage upon once again seeing the damage done to this fine man. His head sunk in shame.

"He is definitely trying to speak to you," observed Gamling. "Are you sure you do not know him?"

"We have established that part," grumbled Erkenbrand. "And no..." he hesitated, for the quick look at the lad had rekindled a memory. Perhaps... "You are one of Martain's sons, are you not? Your brothers rode with my éored."

"I am, my Lord," Battold replied, looking up shyly.

But Erkenbrand's eyes were not on him...they held the unfocused look of one lost in a memory. A gentle smile stretched his cracked lips and he winced and wet them with his tongue. "This boy's two oldest brothers," he chuckled to Gamling, "once smuggled Éomer into my Éored. They even gave him a cloak to better disguise him."

"One could do worse than to have Éomer in his éored," reasoned Gamling, with a shrug of his shoulders.

"He was twelve years old at the time!" Erkenbrand tried to laugh, but again it dissolved into a cough.

Battold raced over to a table to fetch the Marshal some water. Bringing it back, he gingerly handed it to the man, careful not to bump any of his injuries.

"You do not have to treat me like an invalid," coughed Erkenbrand, never-the-less, taking the water gratefully. The cool liquid soothed his throat immeasurably.

"Twelve years old, you say?" asked Gamling, a smile of remembrance lighting his face. "I remember that! You came busting into the Meduseld dragging Éomer like a whelp before you." He chuckled at the memory. "I do not know how Théoden kept from laughing outright."

"I was not amused at the time," admonished Erkenbrand. "I can tell that. We had ridden many leagues before I discovered the little scamp. I had to return him, of course. Our journey was too dangerous for a boy that age." Then he, too, smiled at the memory. "But," he confessed, "I did admire the lad's spunk."

A tentative smile touched Battold's face. "My brothers did that?'

"They did," nodded Erkenbrand. "I had them mucking up after the horses for some time after that, too, just to teach them a good lesson." He nodded thoughtfully, and then his face clouded. "Aye, they were good boys."

Battold's shoulder's sagged and he bit his bottom lip quickly. The Marshal had used the past tense. That must mean his brothers... Battold could not finish the thought, and tried to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat.

Seeing the boy's reaction, Erkenbrand softened. "I see that you did not know. Your two oldest brothers died bravely on the Pelennor, along with many other sons of Rohan. The others are safe, however. They are on the Westfold waiting for my return. There is a place for you as well, if you are interested."

Battold's eyes lit up as hope dared to mingle with the sadness. "You could...you would...forgive me?"

Erkenbrand, wily veteran of countless battles, eyed the boy appraisingly. "You will have to prove yourself to me, son, but for the debt I owe your brothers, I will give you the opportunity. Are you up to it?"

"I am, my lord," breathed Battold. "I will not fail you."

TBC

A/N: Sorry, my Faramir fans. He will return in the next chapter.


	44. Building by Example

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty Four**

**Building by Example**

"_**He that gives good advice builds with one hand; he that gives good counsel and example builds with both." Francis Bacon**_

Faramir carried Éowyn up the stairs followed by the smiling man assigned to guard her door. When Faramir nodded towards the room where Éowyn had been staying, the guard, quickly wiping all signs of a smile from his face, opened the door and then closed it behind the pair.

Éowyn could not repress the shudder that shook her frame as she found herself back in the room where she had been imprisoned for so many anxious days. Faramir felt her shudder, and sat her feet on the floor. Gently he cupped her cheeks with his hands.

"You need never fear again, Éowyn," said Faramir solemnly. Then, his eyes twinkling, the Steward winked. Faramir knew that above all things Éowyn would hate for him to see her exhibit any weakness. "I will leave you my sword. Should any brigand get past the guard outside, I have no doubt but that you will skewer him."

Éowyn felt such a rush of love for Faramir that her eyes nearly misted. Instead she chose to keep the moment light, as he had done. "That skinny blade?" she asked in mock horror. "I should rather have a good, sturdy blade of Rohan."

Faramir's eyebrows shot up. "I see I shall have to teach you some manners ere I turn you loose on the court of Gondor," he smiled.

"You may try," Éowyn smiled sweetly, only to find herself swept off her feet in a bear hug as Faramir's laughter rang off the wall.

"Ah, my love, do not _ever_ change!"

O-o-O-o-O

Wide-eyed, Battold watched as Erkenbrand and Gamling literally nodded off to sleep before him. Still on his knees and incredulous at the turn of events, he thanked Béma and these fine men for the chance to take back his honor after the terrible decisions he'd made in his arrogant youth. Rising, Battold made his way over to Liam, weaving his way through the captured men.

"My Lord?" Battold almost whispered.

Liam turned from supervising the evacuation of the prisoners to the nearby barn where they could be more easily contained and guarded. "What is it?"

"Marshal Erkenbrand and his friend," he nodded towards the two old warriors who were sound asleep. "They are worn and with many wounds. Might I see them up to one of the empty rooms above?"

Liam's eyes automatically flew to the ceiling as though he could see through to the floor, and then over to the slumbering men. He smiled at the image of the two old friends leaning against each other. "Let me help you. It looks to me that if only one rises, the other shall fall onto the floor."

"It does, my Lord," agreed Battold, with a grin.

"Raolf?" called Liam, looking over to where the young man was kneeling beside his parents. "That is your name, is it not?"

"Yes, my Lord?" he said, rising to approach. "How may I be of service?"

"We left many wounded men beside the home where you spoke with the young woman. They should be brought here for treatment."

"I will see to it, my Lord."

"Their mothers will not fancy that," replied Margeth, indignantly.

"Why ever not?" asked Liam, clearly surprised at the woman's outburst.

Raolf looked equally dumbfounded.

"We have been without our sons for too long...my Lord," she added hastily "I mean no disrespect, but we see to ourselves here at Snowbourne." Her chin rose as though to punctuate her statement.

When Liam's eyes slid from Margeth to Raolf, the young man looked ready to fall through the floor. He shrugged his shoulders as though to say, 'Women, my Lord.'

"Well?" asked Margeth.

Liam open and closed his mouth a time or two and then nodded. Far be it for him to take on the collective mothers of Snowbourne. He had his hands full with the prisoners and the hill-men. "Very well, madam." He bowed his head in a gentle salute. "I leave the sons of Snowbourne in the capable hands of their mothers."

"I best be getting back home for my healing supplies," exclaimed Margeth. "My skills will be needed!"

O-o-O-o-O

Éomer felt a tug at his leg. Glancing down he found five-year-old Tredin looking up at him with sleep blurred eyes. The King immediately knelt down to one knee and took the boy into his arms. "Why are you not asleep with the other boys?"

"My eyes just opened," explained Tredin, snuggling into the large man's embrace. "You smell good...like my Papa."

Éomer smiled at the remark. "I used to think the same thing about my uncle." Éomer marveled at how quickly his mind recalled the image of evenings spent with Théoden, Éowyn, and Théodred before a blazing fire in the smaller family common room. Théoden and Théodred always had the comforting scent of the salves used to keep the saddles supple.

"Was your uncle strong like you?" asked the little boy. "You have the biggest arms I have ever seen."

Éomer chuckled. "Yes, my uncle was strong and brave...the wisest man I knew, but I think you are attempting to turn my mind from the fact that you are not in your bed. What say you to that?" He picked up the child. How nice it was to allow his war weary mind to focus only on one little boy and his bedtime!

"I want to stay with you," said Tredin, glancing around the room. "It…it is dark in my room and the other boys are asleep," he whispered, so that no one else could hear. After all, even at this tender age, a son of Rohan did not want to show fear. His weakness confessed, Tredin buried his head against the broad shoulder.

Éomer kissed the soft hair of the little one, frowning at the thought that even a child such as this was raised to be strong and never show weakness. It was the only way their people had survived the centuries of danger and deprivation. He wanted to change that so that the childhoods of Rohan's babes would no longer be stolen.

Misinterpreting the King's frown, a guard rushed over. "Shall I take the boy back to bed, my King?"

Éomer shook his head, dismissing the guard. No, there was nothing more he wanted at this moment than to reassure Tredin, for he represented every child in the Mark. Leaning over, Éomer plucked a blanket from the foot of one of the empty cots and wrapped it around the boy. Retracing his steps from earlier, he returned to his solitary place behind the Meduseld where Théoden had always talked to him..

Tredin peeked out from the blanket, curious as to where they were going.

Éomer sat down, leaning back against the building and making himself comfortable with Tredin beside him. "What do you see?"

Tredin looked from Éomer to the vista before him. "I see...land and mountains and snow and many, many stars!" He glanced up, uncertainty clearly written on his face as he tried to gauge from Éomer's expression whether or not he had answered the question correctly.

Éomer's smile signaled his encouragement to the boy. "Well done, Tredin...and how does what you see make you feel?"

Well now, this question was a bit harder and the child frowned and chewed the inside of his lip as he considered his answer. Gazing back at the panorama, he smiled. "It makes me feel little...but...lucky." He got up on his knees facing the king, dropping the blanket in his rush.

Éomer pulled the covering up around Tredin's shoulders as the boy continued speaking.

"Faramir...I mean, the Steward, told us that people in his city live inside very tall walls of stone. At first, I thought that sounded good." His eyebrows furrowed even deeper as he tried to think how best to express himself. "I mean, it sounded…safe."

It was as though the child was opening before him as a flower in early spring, and Éomer marveled at the change. He nodded his encouragement. "And what do you think now?"

Tredin looked back at the view, awed. "I think there could be no place better in all Arda than here..." He looked again at Éomer. "With you," he added, his eyes huge in the moonlight.

Éomer was silent as he considered the child's words. "I will let no harm come to you, Tredin. Do you believe that?"

Tredin nodded.

Éomer looked at the moonlit vista as though speaking to the distant mountain. "You do not fear the dark." He kept his eyes on the peaks as Tredin sighed and resumed his place as Éomer's side, snuggling close to his warmth for comfort. The king carefully kept any hint of smile from his face. "Tell me what it is that has you afraid."

Tredin's voice was barely louder than the wailing of the wind, but Éomer could clearly hear the fear behind the words. "I…heard some women talking."

Éomer waited, allowing the child all the time he needed.

"They said…" Tredin swallowed. Now that he had begun speaking his courage was buoyed. "They said that we were going to be sent away to different homes."

Tredin could not stop the tears that now coursed down his cheeks. He was, after all, only five years old, and surely five-year-olds were allowed a few tears. If there was anyone he could show his tears it was Éomer. The child came back to his knees and threw himself into the king's embrace.

"Do not send me away," he begged. "I will be good…I will not bring the puppies back inside again."

Éomer's heart shattered at the anguish in the boy's little voice. "Oh Tredin," he crooned, hugging the child to him. "No one will take you from this place…from me."

"Bu…but…the women said," he sniffed, trying to halt the tears.

Smiling now, Éomer tussled the boy's hair. "You do not understand the ways of women, young one. Their lot in life is hard."

"Because they cannot ride or go to war?" interrupted the child, trying to understand..

"Among other things," Éomer chuckled. "They find pleasure in simple things, _and_ they like talking, especially when there are several of them together."

Tredin dried his tears and tried to appear grown up, as befitted a conversation between men. "I have noticed that," he said. "Sometimes the serving women sound like a gaggle of geese in the streets when they talk."

Éomer caught the snort before it was given birth, instead clearing his throat to keep back the laughter. "A word of caution, young one," the king advised. "I would not let any of the ladies hear you speak so."

"No?" asked Tredin, blinking in question.

"No," affirmed Éomer. "The truth be known, I admire how they find joy with each other and with the simple things this life has to offer."

Tredin nodded sagely. "And they tuck a man in good at night, right?"

Éomer laughed outright. "That they do, Tredin; that they do."

Tredin was smiling now and Éomer cupped the chubby cheeks in his hands, sobering. "I am the King of Rohan, and it is within my right to foster children. No one shall take you from me. As Théoden King became a father to me, so shall I become a father to you."

"I can stay with you forever?" asked Tredin, wide-eyed, "and the others too?"

"The others, too," said Éomer, pulling the blanket more closely and nestling the child snugly against his chest.

"You may close your eyes Tredin," he said, stroking the curls back from the boy's forehead. "Go to sleep in peace. You are home now."

For another hour Éomer held the sleeping youngster as he contemplated how much fuller _and_ more complicated his life had just become. For the immediate future, he had no doubts. He had already grown to love these children, and Hildegard was never happier than when she had children to cluck after. The King could not help but chuckle at Tredin's comparison to the geese. He sighed, contented. Elena would have a home with them so long as she wished, as well, he decided.

As the stars made their journey across the night sky, Éomer made plans. Each and every one of these children had lost a father and mother that he wanted them to always remember, and that he would never attempt to replace in their hearts. He would be their Uncle Éomer, and everything to them that his uncle had been to him.

One day, however, he would take a wife. She would, of course, accept the children, or no match would take place. Their offspring would inherit the leadership of Rohan so that the ruling family would continue from the line of Éorl, but these seven children would never lack for love or attention. He would cherish each and help them to reach their full potential.

Éomer smiled as he envisioned continuing the cozy evenings of story telling before bedtime, the giggles of the little Thela as he attempted to brush her hair – Liam would, no doubt, be a great help there. The King chuckled as he remembered how the girls had braided ribbons into the warrior's hair. Most of all, he looked forward to the sleepy faces looking so trustingly at him as he tucked them into bed at night. The joy of these little ones would ease his burden as he guided Rohan through the winter to come. He just prayed that Aragorn would be able to send a few supplies to them.

TBC

A/N: I will be out of the country for the next few weeks. Any reviews will be gratefully and happily acknowledged once I return. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Hugs, IV


	45. Chapter 45 For the Debt I Owe

**To the King**

**Chapter Forty-Five**

**For the Debt I Owe**

_**  
"A glory has departed and the sun that warmed and brightened our lives has set, and we shiver in the cold and dark." ~ Shakespeare**_

**Snowbourne**

"_Well?" asked Margeth_

_Liam opened and closed his mouth a time or two and then nodded. Far be it for him to take on the collective mothers of Snowbourne. He had his hands full with the prisoners and the hill-men. "Very well, madam." He bowed his head in a gentle salute. "I leave the sons of Snowbourne in the capable hands of their mothers._

"_I best be getting back home for my healing supplies," exclaimed Margeth. "My skills will be needed!"_

Margeth helped Barech to sit up, directing him to lean back against the wall for support.

"I will care for him, mother," replied Raolf, his eyes reflecting the pride he felt in both his parents and what they had accomplished this day.

Across the room, Liam and Battold stood regarding the sleeping pair. Erkenbrand and Gamling were literally holding each other up. They had finally succumbed to their exhaustion and battered conditions.

"I will take Marshal Erkenbrand," whispered Battold, easing the man's head up from where it rested on Gamling's shoulder. He was still amazed at the turn of events that had seen his honor restored and a place in this great man's éored offered. He would take up the mantle dropped by his fallen brothers, and uphold the pride his family once again.

Once Erkenbrand was clear, Liam had hold of Gamling, thus sparing the Chief of Guards an undignified slump to the floor.

As Battold rose with the Marshal, Erkenbrand moaned. Battold froze; making sure the man was still asleep.

Upon hearing Erkenbrand's groan, Roalf's head snapped up. He glanced at Barech from where he knelt beside him, for he had assured his mother he would watch over his father.

"Go help him," said Barech. "I am well here."

Raolf glanced back to Erkenbrand, unsure what to do.

"Go son," Barech insisted. "Help him, and be honored to do so. I witnessed the beating he was given. Few men could have endured such and still live to tell the tale. I will just wait here for your mother to return. Go."

Thus assured, Raolf rose and crossed the room to help Battold. "Here," he said, sliding his arms underneath the Marshal's neck and knees. "Use as little pressure on his back as possible, for it is raw."

Battold accepted the help gratefully, sick with his own guilt over the Marshal's treatment. Together they worked their way towards the stairs, followed by Liam carrying Gamling.

The warriors slowly made their way up the steps and then turned right, taking the battered men to the opposite end of the hallway than from where Éowyn was quartered.

"This room is empty," motioned Battold with his head. "Put the Chief of Knights in there."

Liam nodded and moved into the darkened room. As gently as he could, he placed the sleeping man onto the bed. Gamling moaned softly and turned over onto his side. With a smile, Liam pulled a blanket off the foot of the bed and covered him. "Rest well, old friend; you have earned it."

As he was exiting the room, Liam met Battold and Raolf. "Is the Marshal settled?"

"He is," Raolf assured him. "With any luck, he will sleep a long time. The man has been at the edge of his endurance for days."

O-o-O-o-O

Wendil walked back over to the table to rejoin Bergfinn and Ardon, still musing over all that Éomer had just told him. He was deeply embarrassed to have made such a scene before his men. Worse yet, he had challenged the king before everyone in the hall.

"Well," chuckled Ardon good naturedly, "that was quite an exhibition. I am rather surprised that you are not currently in chains. Had I ever challenged Lord Denethor as you just did, I would have spent many a year clapped in irons."

"What of your king?" asked Bergfinn. "Is he also so cruel?"

"The Lord Denethor was not cruel?" exclaimed Ardon, stricken that his words had been so misconstrued. "He was a good man that spent his life ensuring Gondor's safety through the long years of struggle against the dark one. It was only in the very end, especially after the loss of the Captain General, that the constant strain began to wear on his sanity. I think the grief over his son's loss was what finally broke his heart _and_ his will."

Bergfinn sighed. "I meant no disrespect, Ardon. I remember Boromir, for he and our own dear Théodred were great friends. When they were younger, before the weight of responsibility settled fully on their shoulders, they were as happy a pair as one would ever hope to see. It lifted my spirits to see them wrestling on the floor of the smithy like a pair of puppies. More than once I had to scoop them up and send them - laughing - on their way so that I could complete my work." A smile graced his face. " Aye, I would have those days again," he added dreamily.

"You did not tell us about your king," said Wendil, hoping to divert any more attention from his earlier disgraceful behavior.

Ardon met his eyes, perhaps understanding Wendil's need. The head of Faramir's honor guard sighed. "That is not an easy question to answer. He is an honorable man and, without a doubt, helped to lead us to victory in those dark days when the Pelennor still ran dark with blood. Along with Éomer and the remaining Rohirrim, our army followed him to the final battle at the walls of Mordor."

"But what of the man?" prodded Bergfinn, curious about the new ruler of Gondor.

"That is more difficult," hedged Ardon.

Wendil smiled tiredly. "There are no politicians at this table, my friend, only two men who struggled and fought by your side these last days."

Ardon recognized the truth of his words. "You are both more than that to me. You are my friends and brothers." Nodding his head almost to himself, he continued. "As one of Gondor's army, I have had to ask myself where my king _was _during the bitter years of war. I buried three sons for Gondor, and it was not the king who was there to grieve with me, but the Lord Denethor, Boromir, Faramir. My oldest two were with the Captain General in the Cavalry, while my youngest served under Lord Faramir as an Ithilien Ranger." He was silent for a while, as memories of his sons washed over him. Finally he looked up, meeting the eyes of Bergfinn and Wendil. "I have pledged allegiance to my king, but it will take time for him to earn my respect."

Wendil glanced up to see Éomer walking into the room carrying one of his small charges...Tredin, the man thought it was. His love and respect for Éomer could be no deeper, so he understood Ardon's reluctance to speak as freely as he had. Éomer had been raised in Edoras. The people knew him and had watched him bleed for the Mark more than once. He wondered how he would feel should a complete stranger have stepped forward to claim Théoden's place. It made him even more ashamed for questioning his king earlier.

O-o-O-o-O

Faramir joined the group downstairs after he had convinced Éowyn to try to get some sleep. For his own peace of mind there were guards stationed outside her door, and no one would be allowed entry without first being cleared by Faramir. He would see her in danger no more. The past few days of worry for her had been more than enough. His beautiful, brave, and stubborn wife-to-be would just have to allow him the luxury of cosseting her for a bit. She would not like it, but he was sure Éomer would be on his side. He almost chuckled as he pictured her outrage when he picked her up to carry her upstairs.

The Steward glanced around the room until his eyes fell on Hálith. The boy looked near ready to drop, and Faramir started towards him. Surely room could be found for the lad to get some sleep.

Hamm looked up as movement caught his eye. Reaching down into his boot, one of Gilmóod's men pulled out a dagger and lunged for Faramir.

"Look out," shouted Hamm in warning as he threw himself between the pair. It felt as thought the breath were pounded from his body as the dagger was driven into his back, and the farrier crashed into the Steward, as the Rohirric guards looked on in horror.

Faramir was just able to turn and catch at Hamm, breaking his fall somewhat.

"Hamm!" screamed Hálith, bounding across the room to his idol. "Hamm?" he cried, tears burning his eyes as he knelt beside Faramir.

"Help me," called Faramir to Liam, as he gently pulled Ham into his arms to observe the injury. He could see the dagger protruding, but dared not remove it until a healer was present.

As Liam went to help Faramir, Raolf pulled a table to the center of the room. "Dageth," he called. "quickly, find my mother."

Faramir was cradling Hamm, rocking back and forth while he talked to the farrier. "Hold on, Hamm. Help is coming." He could feel the man's blood dripping over his arm. "Why did you do that?" Faramir asked quietly, as Hálith cried beside him. The brave lad was unashamed of his tears.

"For you...for the debt I owe your brother," Hamm whispered. "He gave me back my life. He was a good man."

"As are you," answered Faramir. "Hálith, fetch a pillow and some sheets from one of the bedrooms. I am going to move Hamm to the table so that the healer may better work."

Hálith raced from the room to do the Steward's bidding.

"Do not let the boy see me die," Hamm coughed.

TBC


	46. Chapter 46 Once in a While

**To The King**

**Chapter Forty-Six**

**Once In a While**

_**That's why we call them heroes  
That's why we know their names  
And once you heard their stories, you're never quite the same**_

_**That's why we call them heroes  
The best thing they ever do  
Is point to the best in us all, and say if I can you can too**_

_**Once In a While – Billy Dean**_

_**  
**_**Once in a while, someone comes along.**

**That one in a million heart, so pure and so strong.**

**They can face up to the tears.**

**And somehow still find a smile, that we only get ev'ry once in a while**

"_Do not let the boy see me die," Hamm coughed._

"No one is going to die," vowed Faramir. "I have seen enough men die to last me a lifetime. You _will_ live, Hamm. I am not your king, but I give you this order."

A grim smile touched Hamm's lips. "What is it with you Hurins? Boromir would not let me die, either."

"Then listen to us both," whispered Faramir, feeling somewhat gut kicked at the unexpected reminder of his brother. Even after the time that had passed, Boromir's loss was a fresh wound. Faramir looked across the room seeking aid. Where _was_ that healer?

Liam and Raolf knelt beside Faramir, ready to help him move the ferrier over to the plank table, as Hálith raced down the steps with a sheet, blanket, and pillow. "I brought a sheet to use for bandages," he gasped, fear stealing his breath more than his dash upstairs.

"That was good thinking, boy," replied Raolf. "Begin tearing long strips for binding."

Hálith nodded and started to his task, never taking his eyes from Hamm's pale face.

"Let us me lift him, my Lord," said Liam, touching Faramir on the shoulder.

The steward shook his head, loathe to release this good man. "I will take him." Gently, showing strength that belied his slender frame, he lifted Hamm to the table, placing the man down on his stomach.

Raolf placed the pillow under Hamm's head, making sure that his face was turned so that his breathing was unobstructed, and Liam pulled the blanket over his legs and hips to ward off shock.

Faramir's eyed the man who stabbed Hamm, now being held securely by the Rohirric guards. He looked over the sullen lot kneeling on the floor. "Get them out of here," he growled. "I do not care if you have to hog-tie them; make sure they cause no more harm."

Liam motioned for the guards to follow Faramir's orders. "Tie them to that abominable pole out front."

As the guards began herding the prisoners, Dageth returned with Margeth. The scout carried a basket of supplies.

"Get back out of the way," ordered Margeth as she reached the table. "I need room to work here."

Faramir moved to the opposite side of the table, but otherwise remained near. Hálith was at his elbow. The boy had a death grip on Faramir's tunic, a fact the steward figured Hálith was not even aware of.

Quickly Margeth began cutting away Hamm's shirt.

"Raolf, help me up, son," called Barech. "I am used to attending your mother as she works."

**Once in a while  
Someone has the eyes  
That one in a million look  
That never tells lies  
They can get you on your feet  
To walk that extra mile  
That we only see  
Every once in while**

Éomer carried Tredin back to the room he shared with the other boys, not surprised when the lads all roused up as he came in. Bergoff, the oldest and self-styled leader of the four boys, sat up and held back the covers for Tredin to slide in beside him. Felord and Gandafin shared the bed across from them.

After seeing Tredin snugly back into his spot, Éomer sat down on the side of the bed. It was evident to him that the boys had all been awaiting news of Tredin. "I was going to talk to you all in the morning, but since you are awake I will speak with you now."

"Are we in trouble?" asked Gandafin, the youngest and often most insecure. The boy had immediately taken immediately to Faramir and now announced to one and all that he wished to be a ranger.

Éomer cocked his head, as though considering the boy's question, then smiled and shook his head. "I have come with an important request for you."

"For us?" asked Felord, sitting up beside Gandafin.

"Yes," replied Éomer solemnly. "You see, once Éowyn is wed to Faramir, they will make their home in Gondor. I will be very lonely then. I was hoping that all of you children would remain here with me."

"For how long?" asked Bergoff, wanting to know all the details to that he could help the young ones cope with any circumstance.

Éomer smiled at the question, noting Bergoff's protectiveness. "Well done, son of Rohan. You have the character of a good warrior. The answer to your question is for as long as you wish," he replied seriously. "I will never force you to remain with me."

"We can stay here forever!" squealed Tredin, unable to keep the good news to himself any longer.

The boys broke out into loud cheers, jumping into Éomer's arms, knocking him onto his back, with little boys swarming all over him.

The celebration, not unexpectedly, soon brought Márta, Meela, and Thela from next door to see what was going on. The little girls were as excited about the news as the boys, though understandably not as rowdy.

Three year old Thela nudged her way through the excited children to where she could get Éomer's attention.

"What is it, little one?" he asked, when she kept patting his knee impatiently.

"Elena, too?" asked Thela, for she had come to dearly love the old woman.

Éomer smiled and kissed the little girl on the forehead. "Elena, too," he confirmed. "She has a home with us as long as she wants."

"Will you tell us a story?" asked Márta.

"Please?" echoed her sister, Meela.

The plea was soon taken up by all the children.

"Very well," laughed Éomer. "Come girls, climb up onto the bed with us for the floor is cold and you are all bare of foot. After the story, though, you must all get to sleep. Hildegard is fixing hotcakes for break-fast."

"Yum!" smiled Thela. "I love Hildegard's hotcakes!"

Éomer settled the children and made sure they were all covered. The king glanced around the room, his eyes coming to rest on a familiar object. "Do you know whose room this is?"

"It is our room," answered Gandafin, and to a four year old, that was quite a logical and correct answer.

Éomer smiled and ruffled the boy's hair. "True enough, little ranger, but what I meant was whose room it was _before_ it belonged to the four of you."

The children all looked around seeking clues. The room was much like all the others they had seen. Beds graced with oak headboards carved with images of their beloved horses, chest holding four drawers with a wash basin and ewer on top, chair, and pelts covering the floor. The most interesting thing of note was a lance mounted on the wall. The green standard of Rohan was attached just above end.

Éomer watched as, one by one, their eyes came back to the lance. "I made that."

"Was this your room?" asked Thela.

"No, this room belonged to Prince Théodred," replied Éomer. "I made the lance for him.

"It is pretty," said Meela.

The little boys groaned. Only a _girl_ would call a warrior's weapon…pretty.

Éomer's eyes twinkled in mirth, but he would not crush the little girl's feelings for anything. "Thank you, Meela."

"Why did you make it for him?" asked Felord. "Was it for his birthday?"

"Is that the story you are going to tell us?" questioned Thela before Éomer could answer, "about the prince's birthday?"

"Perhaps another time," said Éomer. "Tonight I am going to tell you one of my favorite memories of Théodred, for I loved him very much. I called him Theo…"

**That's why we call them heroes  
That's why we know their names  
And once you heard their stories, you're never quite the same  
**

"_Theo!" called Éomer, walking across the yard from the stable to join his cousin. "That brute is a beauty."_

"_You think so, squirt?" Théodred grinned. "I think he has the look of one that needs a strong hand. Have a care, Éomer; this one likes to reward inattention with a good kick." _

_Taking care to avoid the roan's hind quarters, Éomer fell into step beside Théodred as they walked the stallion to the corral where the breaking in of the horses was done. "What is his name?"_

"_Fedranth," answered Theo, grunting as the stallion jerked his head and attempted to reverse direction, forcing Théodred to bring him back to task._

_At seventeen hands tall, this strawberry roan would be a handful for anyone, but this beauty seemed to have a mind of his own, for every few steps he would buck and cow kick. A lesser horseman could easily be intimidated by such a handful, but Théodred was the most accomplished horseman Éomer had ever seen. _

_The corral where they headed was outside the city gates, where there was room a plenty for the breaking process. The proud and stubborn Horse Lords of Rohan were equally matched in those attributes by their horses. _

"_Are you changing horses?" asked Éomer, for Théodred's responsibilities did not normally allow him the luxury - and fun – of breaking horses. There was a regular set of warriors who covered those responsibilities. _

"_No, he is a gift for Ori, so I wish to see to him myself."_

"_Oh," replied Éomer, a little surprised. He knew of his cousin's friendship with the heir to the Steward of Gondor, for Boromir was often allowed to visit Rohan. Éomer liked the lad. He was never short tempered with Éomer for wanting to tag along with the older pair, and he had also helped Éomer with his sword work. But a horse of this stature was extremely valuable, and Uncle Théoden had impressed upon him the importance of wise trading to keep Rohan well supplied._

_Theo hiked an eyebrow at Éomer's surprise. "You wonder why I would gift such a costly animal."_

_Éomer colored. "It is not for me to question…"_

"_How will you learn if you do not question, Éomer?" smiled Théodred. "There must never be fear to question between us." The pair walked quietly for a bit as Théodred let his young cousin think on his words. Sighing, he stopped walking, forcing Éomer to stop as well. "Boromir is more than my friend, Éomer, he is my shield brother. Fedi's value is but a poor shadow when compared to Ori's. Do you understand?" Théodred grunted again as Fedi gave a great buck and then attempted to eat one of the wild flowers lining the pathway._

_Éomer grinned. "How will your shield brother feel when this brute breaks his leg with one of those kicks?"_

_Théodred sighed. "That is what we are here to deal with now." _

_The pair had reached the corral, so Éomer pulled open the gate, latching it after horse and horse lord had entered._

"_Come on, you great streak of aggravation," remarked Theo, leading Fedranth into the corral. For the next two hours, the premier horseman in a nation of horsemen, did battle royale with the great strawberry streak of aggravation - as he would come to be known - as Éomer watched in nearly stunned silence. Such was the battle of wills that Éomer found himself alternately filled with wonder and respect…for both combatants. _

_Théodred was bleeding freely from a cut to his head, suffered when he was thrown into one of the corral posts. Éomer was about to call a truce when Fedranth gave a great huff and surrendered. Proudly, the roan pranced around the paddock for several circles, and then, as though adding a crescendo to the overture, pitched Théodred head over heels into the water trough on the outside of the corral._

_Éomer burst out laughing, and walked over to offer his cousin a hand._

_With a flick of his tail and a roll of his eyes, Fedranth huffed again for effect and calmly pranced around the corral. Théodred was scowling at first, but then joined in the laughter, for what could such a superb horseman appreciate more than Fedi getting the last word!_

"What is a shield brother?" asked Bergoff.

Éomer pondered how best to explain. "There are brothers of blood, and then there are brothers of the heart. That is what Theo and Boromir were. Do you understand?"

Éomer could see that the children still struggled with the concept. "You all had fathers and mothers of the blood. Fate has taken those parents from you, but in return, has made us a family of the heart. The love and loyalty we bear each other is from choice and not from what runs in our veins."

"Does this make you our shield father?" asked Thela, blinking sleepy eyes and snuggling in the king's arms.

**Once in a while  
I still hear his voice  
That one in a million sound  
Like two laughing boys  
He would hated if we cried  
That never was his style**

**Oh we still miss him  
Every once in a while**

Faramir watched as Margeth finished stitching the wound to Hamm's back. The healer felt certain that his lungs were intact and that, Bema willing, he would recover. Liam had quietly ushered out all save Margeth, Faramir, Barech, Raolf, Hálith, and himself. Hálith was exhausted, and sat slumped against the table, dozing.

Margeth finished tying off the bandages, and gently pulled the blanket up to cover Hamm's shoulders. "He will heal better if he can rest on something more comfortable than this table," she said tiredly. "Carry him upstairs, and I will wait with him through the night."

"No mother," said Raolf. "You are exhausted. I will sit with Hamm. I can call you if you are needed."

Margeth started to object, but Faramir stepped around the table to place a hand on her arm. "Your son is correct, Margeth. You have done all you can do this night. You need rest, and Barech needs his wife to be with him. I thank you for the service you have given."

Margeth looked into the kind face of the steward and smiled. "You are a good man, Faramir of Gondor." Her eyes looked down at her patient and then at Raolf. "Call me if I am needed."

Raolf kissed his parents and wished them a good night. As they left, he turned to Faramir. "Hamm said that your brother refused to let him die _as well_. That is a story I would like to hear."

Faramir nodded, a far away look in his eyes. "As would I…as would I."

**Ooh how I miss him  
Every once in a while**


End file.
